


Try to Earn what Lovers Own

by destielpasta



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Angst, Blow Jobs, De-Aged Yuri Plisetsky, Domestic, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fatherhood, First Dates, First Meetings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Frottage, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Kid Fic, Kissing, M/M, Original Character(s), Past Injury, Single Parent Victor Nikiforov, Single Parents, Skater Katsuki Yuuri, Tags for smut to follow when it becomes relevant, Yuuri is also 21, coach victor, everyone still skates but it's not canon universe, long fic, parenting, teacher victor, victor is 21
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2018-12-31 09:26:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 56,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12129459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destielpasta/pseuds/destielpasta
Summary: “To my dear friend Victor Ivanovich Nikiforov, I leave the care and keeping of my beloved son Yuri, knowing that he will love him the way I do."Victor freezes, his mind racing ahead.“Vitya–  this is a lot. Lilia and I, we would be willing, if this is too much for you–”“Of course I’ll take care of Yuri,” Victor interrupts, almost laughing, his heart bubbling with happiness, “Where is he? Can I see him?”.....A tragic accident sets Russian silver medalist Victor Nikiforov down an unexpected path. Of course, as much as things are different, some will always remain the same.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New fic time! This one's gonna be a doozy. Most of it is already written, and I will be updating every Monday :)

Victor's alarm blares from his bedside table and he groans, hand flailing out blindly to stop the noise. It collides with the sharp corner of the side table first, and he hisses in pain, sitting up and wringing his stinging hand.

He hits his phone screen, stopping the noise before tossing it onto the coffee table.

He yawns, untwisting his legs from the sheets and smoothing them out in front of him. He swings them over the side, noting his old and fading bruises replaced with a constant ache and swelling from being on his feet all day. Sighing, he stands up, pocketing his phone in his sweatpants.

He pulls the messy covers up and folds them, tucking the sofa bed back into place. He pushes the table and chairs back into place where they had been pushed out of the way, turning his bedroom back into the living room for the day.

He makes his way to the kitchenette against the wall, getting the kettle set up for tea, the pull to go back to sleep already downright unbearable. The sun barely peeks through his tiny window as he grabs a bottle from the drying rack, filling it halfway with water before grabbing the can of formula from the shelf above the sink. He adds a scoop to the water and screws on the cap just as the kettle finishes heating. He shakes the bottle as he pours a cup of tea with his other hand, setting it on the counter to cool while he puts the bottle into a bowl of warm water to come to room temperature.

There’s a rustle from the side room, followed by a soft whine. Victor pads across the room, parting the curtain that separates the main living space with Yuri’s tiny nursery.

Yuri flails around in his crib, legs up in the air as he grabs his covered feet. Victor smiles, bending down and picking him up out of his crib.

“Good morning kitten, how did you sleep?” he asks, smoothing Yuri’s unruly blond hair back from his forehead. He had never seen a baby born with such a coif.

Yuri gurgles in response, his original smile fading and nearly replaced with his early morning crying grimace.

“Oh, I know that face,” Victor jokes, “Don’t worry, I’m getting to work.”

He brings Yuri over to the high table he uses as a changing station, making quick work of his dirty diaper and fishing a clean one from the bag underneath the table. The bag of reusable diapers sits unused in the corner, a ‘gift’ from a former rinkmate. He has his limits.

Yuri, now clean and back to his happy place, sucks on his fingers as Victor slips him out of his pajamas and into a clean onesie for the day. He hoists him up onto his hip, stooping down to grab the diaper bag underneath the table and bring it out into the kitchen where Yuri’s bottle waits, now suitably warm. He replaces the cap with the nipple, angling Yuri in his arms so that he can drink comfortably.

He takes a deep breath, sighing as Yuri has his breakfast, the sounds of the apartment building coming to life slowly. Doors slam, children yell, footsteps thump down the hallway. He takes inventory of his day. Somewhere in between his shifts he has to find a moment to at least do Yuri’s laundry, the basket by the door piling up more every day. He could throw the dirtier things in to soak now, and get them on the line when he gets home–

Yuri finishes with a pop, and Victor acts quick enough to get the bottle away from him before he can swallow too much air. He snags a clean towel from the counter and slings it over his shoulder before setting Yuri there, patting his back.

Yuri used to gets collicky from time to time, nothing like the baby down the hall that cries and cries without relief, but enough to still make Victor nervous after he eats that he’ll have to leave a very unhappy baby at daycare. He’s relieved when Yuri lets out a small burp, and seems content this morning.

He sets him down in the high chair, scattering a handful of cereal there to keep him busy while he takes his first sip of tea. It’s already cold, and he adds more hot water to heat it up. Yuri gums at the cereal while he sets to getting himself presentable for the day. His work uniform is folded over one of the straight backed chairs, the creases of his white shirt and black slacks carefully preserved. He gets dressed, ducking into the bathroom for a moment to straighten his hair and brush his teeth.

He clears up the cheerios, most of them having made it into Yuri’s mouth before he started dropping them on the floor with vocalizations of glee.

“Already making trouble for me, Yura?” He picks him up out of the high chair, swinging him around until he sits comfortably at his hip again. “Are we ready to go? Did you finish the crossword puzzle?”

Yuri’s mouth opens in a gummy smile, and lightning quick, he reaches out with a tiny hand to grab Victor’s collar.

“Oops, you almost took my head with you,” he says as he rummages around for the last of Yuri’s things to shove in the diaper bag by the door, “So strong already, we must tell Yakov and Lilia.”

He slings the the diaper bag over his shoulder, giving one last forlorn look at the laundry basket still sitting full beneath his feet.

He looks at Yuri. “Tonight? Tonight.”

He walks into the hallway, shutting the door behind him with a click and locking it with the same hand. There’s already a flurry of activity in the hallway as parents get older children ready for school and adults slowly filter out for work. Victor only has a short way to walk before he finds the door he’s looking for, knocking three times on the nondescript brown wood.

A young woman opens the door, her dark brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She smiles upon seeing Victor, holding her arms out for Yuri.

“And how is this one doing today?” Maria asks, her smile always making Victor feel relieved in the morning rush.

“Good, thankfully,” Victor says, “He’s had a bottle, I put three more in the bag to go in the refrigerator.” He hands the bag over to her, fishing out his wallet and keys before reaching over to give Yuri a kiss on the head.

“Be good, kitten, I’ll be back in a few hours.”

He bids goodbye to Maria and they retreat back into her apartment, where at least three other cribs are lined up along the back wall. Maria had saved him and residents like him, providing loving babysitting for cash under the table. Not exactly a legal venture, but who’s to say you can’t hire a babysitter?

He glances at his watch as soon as he is out in the cool summer morning, the time approaching 8 o’clock. He picks up his pace, thankful that _Severyanin_ is only a brisk walk away. He enters surreptitiously through the back door, nodding hello to the kitchen staff that are in various states of making breakfast orders and preparing for lunch.

“Victor! Cutting it close, are we?” one of the line cooks calls out to everyone’s laughter. Victor just smiles and shakes his head, still trying to wake up after his failed cup of tea, and fumbling with tying the bow tie at his throat.

 _Severyanin_ is a somewhat trendy restaurant that caters upscale breakfast and lunch to the suit-wearing types and adventurous tourists that happen to make their way to Northern St. Petersburg. Victor switches from serious Russian waiter for the locals to charming Russian flirt for the tourists, joking with his coworkers in between rushes and gathering a good amount of tips.

By the mid-afternoon, his feet ache and a thin sheen of sweat gathers at the back of his collar from the growing heat. He clocks out after straightening his section, one of his fellow waiters catching up with him by the time he’s almost out the door.

“Victor!” he calls, and Victor blanches trying to remember his name. Evgeni? Antonin?

He takes a chance. “Antonin! How are you?”

He doesn’t get a weird look, so he figures he must be correct. The man smiles.

“A group of us are meeting for drinks later, want to join?”

Victor smiles. “Sorry, I have a shift at the rink tonight. Another time?”

Antonin sags a little, but keeps up his smile. “We’ll get you soon, Nikiforov! Russia’s silver medalist has to have some fun sometime, yes?”

Victor’s stomach twists, laughing along with Antonin even though the sound is too loud.

“I’ve got to get going, see you tomorrow?

He’s out in the misty air before the poor man can answer, the humidity clinging to his shirt and making him sweat more. Great, more laundry.

He still has a half hour left of Maria’s time, and he grabs some Pirozhki from a nearby stand, wistfully trying to remember the last time he had actually cooked for himself. He would go to the market over the weekend. Get something other than baby food.

He peels his humidity-damp shirt from his skin as he walks, eating the hot pirozhki right from the bag. June in St. Petersburg is halfway between hot and cold, and humid enough to curl anyone’s hair. The mist in the air almost warrants an umbrella, an onslaught only somewhat relieved by ducking into his apartment building.

Maria answers her door before he even reaches it.

“I saw you walking up through the window.” After a whole day with six combined infants and toddlers, Maria never smiles quite as wide. She still receives him warmly however, leading him to where Yuri sleeps in one of the cribs.

“Good day?” He asks while she putters around the small kitchen space to gather Yuri’s bottles from her own drying rack.

“I barely heard a peep from him, he slept through Ilia’s whole temper tantrum,” she says, putting the bottles back in the diaper bag.

Victor laughs, peering over the crib’s edge. “How long has he been sleeping?”

“A little over an hour. He had a bottle a little before then”

“I’m sorry, Yuri,” he says as he lifts the baby from the crib, “I would never want to disturb a nap so beautiful.”

Yuri doesn't immediately start crying, which he counts as a victory, laying his little head down on Victor's shoulder to attempt to finish his nap. Maria places the bag on his shoulder for him.

“Thank you,” he whispers, reaching into his side pocket with some trouble due to the sleeping baby in his arms. He hands Maria his carefully counted tips from his shift. “This should be half. I'll have the rest next week.”

Maria takes the money, tucking it into her back pocket. “You're lucky you're so charming.”

“I tend to be lucky in general,” he says, sending a wink her way before bidding her good night and heading back out into the hallway.

Yuri starts to wake up for real once they're inside the apartment, making little noises against his shoulder.

“Almost mashed carrot time,” he says in a sing-song voice, setting down the diaper bag near the door. He grabs a blanket from the back of the couch and spreads it out on the floor, setting Yuri down to crawl a little while he wakes up.

Yuri is content to coo quietly on the floor while Victor grabs the laundry basket. He keeps an eye on Yuri while he throws a load of light colored clothes into the small washing machine, stripping down to his boxers and throwing his shirt into the wash as well

He rifles through the chest of drawers to find pieces of a somewhat matching tracksuit, layering a Lycra shirt underneath the zip up jacket. Yuri is just starting to squirm his way off the blanket when Victor scoops him up, setting him down in the high chair and grabbing a glass jar of mashed carrots from the shelf above the sink. He sits down at the table with Yuri, getting most of the carrots in Yuri’s mouth and a good deal more on the high chair table when Yuri’s fists start flying.

By the time Yuri has finished his dinner, there’s a soft scratch at the door. Knowing better than to call that it’s already unlocked, Victor shoots up to open the door.

“Anna,” he says, greeting the elderly woman who immediately crosses his threshold, “It is wonderful to see you.”

Anna, a short but stocky older woman, looks him up and down.

“Still just as skinny as last week.”

“I’m an athlete, Anna,” he says, laying on the charm. It did no good to get on Anna’s bad side before leaving for the evening. “I have to stay in shape.”

“I don’t know what ‘shape’ you’re going for,” she says, removing the veil that covered her steely gray hair. “Beanpole, maybe.”

Yuri takes that moment to make his presence known, letting out a yell and laughing at his own noise. The first smile cracks over Anna’s face.

“Not this one,” she says, lifting Yuri from the high chair and cradling him close, “This one is well-fed, like a proper man.”

Victor smiles, slipping on his shoes and grabbing his duffel bag from its place on the rickety coat rack, slinging it over his shoulder.

“He’s only just eaten, so he should be good for a while. I made a few more bottles up for you–”

Anna comes by the door with Yuri on her hip, shooing him away with a flick of her fingertips. “Go, go, you’re going to be late. Yura and I have everything here well at hand.”

Victor smiles, leaning forward to kiss Yuri’s forehead quickly. He readjusts the bag on his shoulder, bidding goodnight to Anna before heading out into the hallway. Glancing at his phone for the time, he speeds up his walk.

The nearest metro station is a five minute’s walk away, and out in the humid streets he finds himself slowing down. He forces himself to keep a steady walking speed, weaving through tourists and locals alike. The season is beginning, and Victor usually isn’t annoyed by the slightly bumbling foreigners that flood his city with their picture-taking and trinket-buying, but they do walk slowly.

Soon he reaches the station, boarding the train just as the doors are beginning to close. It’s packed full of commuters on their way home from jobs at the city center, and Victor has to shove his way in to find a clear spot to stand.

He catches his breath, leaning heavily against a pole for support. He checks his phone again, scrolling aimlessly through his Facebook feed. It’s full of pictures of former competitors, all on break now until training really heats up again. He purses his lips when he sees Christophe Giacometti, one of the finalists from the Grand Prix and current world champion, relaxing on a beach somewhere in the southern region of California. Chris had been a fun friend during the Grand Prix, making the awkward banquet an enjoyable evening for all, even those who hadn’t medaled.

He pockets his phone when his stop is announced, joining the crowd that gravitates toward the door. He follows them out as soon as the door opens.

The rink is close to the station, the hulking blue arena a bit of a blight on the historic architecture around him. However, his stress from the crowded train and his fears of being late begin to settle as soon as he steps into the entryway, the coolness of the rink calling to him through the frosted double doors.

He bids hello to the two women working the snack bar and front desk, making his way through the chattering groups of people with skates hanging from their hands and bulky bags at their hips. He stows his bag in his locker, quickly lacing up his skates heading out to the rink, the cold air hitting his face and bringing relief from the growing heat outside.

A familiar figure leans against the rink barrier, head resting in his hands.

“Georgi!” he calls out, clapping a hand on his younger rinkmate’s shoulder, “What’s new?”

Georgi barely acknowledges his presence. “Nothing will ever be new again. Not without her.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Come on now, it can’t be all that bad.”

Georgi looks at him, inhaling deep when Victor spots a tear escape out of the corner of his eye.

“Time for work, you’ll be ok, my friend.” He gives Georgi one more supportive clap on the shoulder before heading in the direction of the families that were beginning to arrive.

“Victor!”

A small pair of hands latch onto his leg just as he starts walking toward the ice, a familiar ritual that has him smiling.

“Now, who is this monkey attached to my leg?” he says, looking down at the 5 year-old girl bundled in a pick snowsuit with matching blade guards on her skates.

“It’s me, Polina!” She nearly shouts, smiling a wide, tiny-toothed smile.

“Is it now?” He feigns confusion, patting her head, “The Polina I know doesn’t have a pink head!”

“It’s just my hat, Victor!” She swipes it off her head, as if to prove her point.

“My mistake,” he says as her parents make their way through the rink doors, deflating at the sight of her safe with Victor.

“She ran off,” Polina’s father, Pavel, says by way of explanation while catching his breath.

Victor smiles, picking Polina up and slinging her over his shoulder to her screaming delight. Pavel plucks off her skate guards when they walk by.

“Let’s use up some of this energy on the ice, yeah?” Victor says, “So your Mama and Papa can get some sleep tonight?”

They both nod and laugh in agreement, heading to their seats in the stands as Victor carries a laughing Polina towards the rink entrance. The rest of his pupils stand at attention, waiting to be released onto the ice.

He deposits Polina in line with the rest of his students, moving along it to check for loose laces or wobbly ankles. Once he deems them fit to skate, he crosses over to the front of the line, they’re craning their necks to see over the barrier onto the ice.

He claps his gloved hands twice. “Ok, my little fish, are we ready to skate?”

They answer with a resounding (and squeaky) “Yes!”

“And what are Victor’s rules for when we are on the ice?”

Hands shoot up in the air. Victor smiles and calls on a few, with answers ranging from “Keep your arms up so you don’t fall!” to “Don’t trip anyone!” As soon as he’s convinced that they are ready, he swings open the rink gate.

He immediately locks eyes with Yakov from across the rink, the older man working with a small group of advanced students that would be finishing up soon. Yakov nods at him, and then nods at one of his skaters, who then immediately launches into a triple flip.

His students ooh and aah behind him, but he calls them to order with another clap, calling out behind him.

“Arms up, and follow me!”

He leads them around the rink, turning around and skating backwards once they are all on the ice to check for collapsed ankles and toepick-abusing. All of his pupils diligently push off from the sides of their blades, eyes up and backs straight for balance, their little faces pinched with concentration.

He smiles again, from pride this time. He takes a somewhat more relaxed approach to teaching than his own experience as a student, even letting the children address him informally, but he is still Yakov Feltsman’s student inside, and believes that discipline is key to mastering a sport that often takes more than it gives.

After a few laps, Victor leads them to the center of the rink to practice stops, tilting chins upward when the children look down by instinct. A few topple to the ground in their attempts. Sometimes Victor helps them up, other times he represses the instinct, knowing that learning to get up by yourself when you fall is just as important as knowing when to lean on someone else.

“My dad says I’ll get gold medals when I learn to jump like that,” One of his smallest boys says, just barely four years old. He had had the gleam of competition in his eyes ever since his parents had relocated from Almaty.

“I have no doubt, Otabek. But first you must learn the basics.”

The small boy sighs as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders before rejoining the group working on their lemons.

Soon it’s time to wrap up his beginner class, and he leads them in a series of stretches before leading them back to the exit where they can be picked up by their parents. The children bid him goodbye with wide smiles, waving from their parents’ arms.

“Bye Victor!” Polina calls from her father’s shoulders.

He smiles and waves. “Until next time!”

By the time his last beginner leaves, his novice students are already on the ice warming up. They’re all business as they sink into their figures and spins, and Victor takes a moment to grab a sip of water on the sidelines. The rough metal bench looks like a king-size pillow-top bed at that point, and he sits, his feet pulsing angrily inside his skates. He drops his head in his hands, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment.

He has to find a way to get diapers tomorrow, in between the restaurant and picking up Yuri and coming to the rink. Stores close before he gets out of the rink each night, but Yuri needs diapers no matter what. If he runs to the store after the restaurant he might not be too late picking Yuri up–  

“Victor Ivanovich,” a shy voice says from the rink barrier. He looks up, his student Galina looking at him shyly. Her round face is almost red from blushing. “I was wondering–  if you–  I need help on–”

Victor smiles, sparing her the embarrassment of admitting her troubles. “Let’s take a look at that double axel, shall we?”

He springs up, his legs quivering more underneath him that he cares to reveal, and strides back out onto the rink. Galina leads the way, and she looks back shyly, waiting for permission. He nods, schooling his face into his Serious Teacher face, and she takes off, building momentum before settling into the familiar position, free leg swinging as she takes off from the side of her blade.

Victor presses a finger to his lips as she completes two and a half rotations, coming up slightly short and two-footing the landing on her toe-picks, causing her to fall forward. She sits up immediately, dropping her head into her hands as his other students skate around her, ignoring her failure.

Victor takes off towards her, allowing her the time to get up before he approaches.

“Not bad, Galina, it’s closer today.”

The twelve year-old looks at him stoically. She’s already approaching middle age in terms of figure skating, and “closer” just doesn’t cut it for her.

“I want to land it. Every time.”

Victor laughs. “That’s good. Wanting it is first step.” He rests his hands on his hips. “Again.”

She skates away, and he mills around the rest of his students, making adjustments here and there and setting goals for each of them. They respond with “Yes, Victor Ivanovich” each time, taking the advice to heart. He cringes at the formality, but these students hadn’t been with him since the beginning, and take comfort at the ritual. He knows their comfort is more important than his at this point. He already gives them all more personal attention than is strictly traditional. He finds demonstrations to be helpful for his students, and he jumps and spins right alongside them.

“Kostya, practice your step sequence now, it’s not just a jumping competition– You too Roza–”

Yakov finally finishes with his students at the other end of the rink, skating over to Victor as they disperse to the locker rooms.

The old man nods his greeting. “How are they doing?”

Victor folds his arms across his chest, watching the novices around him. “Good. Galina is close to the double axel becoming consistent. She may land it tonight.”

Yakov grunts his assent. “And her triples?”

“The toe loop and salchow are her best.”

Yakov shakes his head. “She should have the loop by now, too.”

Victor bites his top lip. “I didn’t want to overwhelm her with edge jumps right now while solidifying her program–”

“Bah,” Yakov interrupts, “She needs to be overwhelmed.”

Victor pauses. “I respectfully disagree.”

Yakov looks at him. “What a surprise.”

“Yakov–”

“It’s your job to have them ready for me by the end of the summer. If you can’t do that, I’ll find someone else who can.”

He skates away, heading for the rink exit without looking back. Victor watches his retreating figure until it disappears through the door to the lobby.

 _Yes, Yakov, Yuri is doing well._ He thinks mockingly to himself, _When he laughed the other day, I swore I saw Elena in his smile._

Heat builds behind his eyes, but he shakes it away. He skates after a flailing Sasha and Kostya, who appeared to be getting tangled in their own legs.

The practice goes by quickly after that, and soon parents begin filing inside to pick up their children. He bids them goodbye from the ice, giving last minute advice but mostly staying positive about their progress. After all, by July, the tender days of figure skating lessons would be over for them, and they would begin training for their first junior seasons if Yakov accepted them into his program.

The rink empties out quickly, and Victor is left with only the ice for company. He glides around aimlessly, knowing that when he finally sits down the aches and pains would be much worse. He prolongs it for a moment, settling into some basic figures patterns.

Perhaps he was too soft with Galina. The girl was prone to crying when things go wrong, and Victor hadn’t done much to quell that particular habit. Yakov saw him work jumps with her, but he didn’t know that her soft personality created the most beautiful artistry on the ice that would only mature and deepen with time. If only she were a year younger, or had started a year earlier...

“Hey, Victor!”

His head snaps up, ripped from his thoughts. His friend Mila waves from the sidelines, her deep red hair standing out next to the drab decor of the rink. He finds it odd that she’s still here, until he sees the entourage of people behind her. She turns her back to him, talking to them with animated hands. They look around sheepishly, obviously fish out of water.

Yakov’s intensive summer program for senior skaters. How could Victor forget?

He watches them for a moment, and some look at him, eyes widening before turning to the other skaters next to them to whisper, no doubt about him.

They’re an international group, as always.Victor notices a Japanese man right in front of the group, staring at Mila as if he were about to start taking notes. He looks somewhat familiar to Victor, as do most of the elite group. The best of the best from each country coming to skate with Yakov, one of the most respected coaches in the modern figure skating scene.

He turns, looking straight at Victor, who raises a hand in a friendly wave. It goes unreturned, as the man goes red and immediately looks away. Victor grimaces, figuring a shitty end to a shitty day is fitting. Why should a handsome Japanese man pay him any mind?

They move on after a few minutes, Mila taking them to the blade sharpening room. The throbbing in Victor’s hip reaches a head, and he finally exits the ice to take off his skates.

He winces as he pulls them off, his blisters nothing compared to when he had been in full training, but still substantial. He quickly shoves his feet into street shoes, gathering his things and exiting the empty rink without a backwards glance.

The streets are dark as he makes his way towards the metro station. He checks the time, walking quicker when he sees that it’s almost ten minutes to nine . There’s a train already boarding when he gets to the metro, and he hops on quickly.

When he finally arrives at his apartment, almost panting from rushing, a delicious smell greets him. Anna is already standing near the door, getting her coat on.

“Anna, I’m so sorry I’m late–”

She clicks her tongue. “None of that. I fed Yuri and he is sound asleep. I used that meat in your fridge that was about to go bad. There’s zharkoye and potatoes on the stove for you.”

He deflates. “Thank you, Anna.”

She shakes her head. “You’re welcome. Eat up, or I’ll stay and make sure you do.”

He smiles, nodding obediently. “Yes ma’am.”

He pays her quickly, the last of his tips from earlier disappearing in a flash out the door. He sighs. At least there’s delicious stew sitting on his stove.

He goes to check on Yuri, finding him sound asleep in his crib, his tiny hands turned up towards the ceiling. Victor smiles, brushing a piece of white-blonde hair away from his face.

“I missed you, Yuratchka,” he whispers, not wanting to wake him.

Anna does a good job, but she isn’t Yuri’s family.

He sighs, walking back out into the main room. His hands search for something to pick up, something to straighten, his legs still wanting to move as if he were gliding across the ice, but Anna had done everything. His laundry even hangs from the long line against the wall with the window.

His eyes are heavy when he finally settles on the sofa with a bowl of Anna’s hearty stew, scrolling through his phone using the arm of the sofa as a prop.

He sees a recent post on Mila’s instagram, a wide shot selfie obviously done with a stick. He laughs at her matching peace sign with the dark-skinned Asian boy next to her. The rest of the group from earlier smiles behind her.

 _Just hanging out with my new best friends!_ The caption reads in english, _#summerishere #figureskating @phichit_hamster @katsukiyuuri…_

Victor’s eyebrows shoot up, finally recognizing the Japanese boy on Mila’s other side, squatting down with his hands awkwardly resting on his knees for the photo. Japan’s national silver medalist, and the fifth place holder at Worlds.

_I can’t wait to see you go against Yuuri Katsuki, Victor, that’s a competition in the making!_

He shivers, the voice echoing in his head without his express permission. He sets his phone  aside, finding his charger and setting it up on the kitchen counter. He puts his bowl in the sink, and transfers the leftover stew to a bowl to put in the fridge.

By the time he makes it back to the couch, he barely has the energy to strip down to his boxers and t-shirt, pulling out the sofa bed and collapsing on it without pulling the covers down, his eyes heavy with sleep.

 

**_January 10, 2017_ **

_Victor keeps the ice pack against his eye, the doctor’s orders clear upon his discharge. He tries to feel a tinge of embarrassment about it, sitting in a suit at the long table with Yakov and Lilia, not to mention the well-dressed lawyer sitting down at the head, but fails. His eye throbs too hard too care._

_“Thank you all for being here today.” The lawyer starts, “As you know, we’re here to read the last will and testament of Elena Orlova, found by Lilia Baronovskaya in the deceased’s home.”_

_Victor tries to remember the man’s name. Vasiliev? Volkov? One of the two._

_The lawyer clears his throat. “It’s a short will, as you know she was very young.”_

_Lilia scowls, and Victor can’t help his own surge of anger. Is this the man’s first day on the job?_

_Yakov speaks up, the first of them to do so. “Get on with it, then.”_

_The lawyer jumps slightly at Yakov’s gruff tone. “Yes, of course.”_

_He starts with the form letter part. “I, Elena Orlova, grant my last will and testament now on this date, December 18, 2016…”_

_Victor zones out, the stiff words having nothing to do with Elena. Her true words flowed like poetry, clever and sharp but with a lilt that never failed to mystify him. She would call from across the rink, her blades whispering like a song unto themselves…_

_“Victor?”_

_Lilia’s voice is harsh against his calm memory._

_“I apologize. My head is still… I apologize,” he says, setting the icepack down on the table._

_The lawyer looks at him, still holding the paper, as if waiting for a reaction._

_“Perhaps, I should read it again?”_

_Victor nods._

_He clears his throat, looking down through his glasses._

_“To my dear friend Victor Ivanovich Nikiforov, I leave the care and keeping of my beloved son Yuri, knowing that he will love him the way I do. I also leave him all my current assets, to be used to care for my son.”_

_Victor freezes, his mind racing. His stomach swoops._

_“Vitya?”_

_Yakov’s voice cuts through the noise, wrenching his back to the present. Lilia and Yakov watch him with concern, hands unseen under the table. Victor knows they’re holding hands._

_“Vitya–  this is a lot. Lilia and I, we would be willing, if this is too much for you–”_

_“No.”_

_The word is out before he even thinks about it. The feeling of Elena in his arms, warm and alive, solid against him with her fine hair against his cheek, overwhelms him. Of course._ Of course _he would._

_“Of course I’ll take care of Yuri,” he says, almost laughing, his heart bubbling with happiness, “Where is he? Can I see him?”_

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments and kudos for the first chapter! As a gift heres chapter two a few days early.
> 
> Shout out to victorykatsudon for being the best beta ever.

Victor taps a finger against his chin as Galina settles into a mediocre layback spin, the arch of her back tense. 

“Lengthen through your waist, Galina!” he calls, making a mental note to tell Lilia that she needs to work on it with her at the barre. 

Galina never responds positively to criticisms shouted across the ice, and she huffs away to build up momentum for another try without acknowledging him. Victor bites his lip; Yakov won’t deal well with that kind of attitude from a junior skater come July. 

He turns away, giving her a moment to collect herself. His own habits die hard. 

He pulls his phone from his pocket, checking for notifications. Yuri had felt warm that morning, but despite his morning off from the restaurant, Victor still has his novice level class to teach on Tuesday afternoons. Maria had promised to let him know if he got worse. 

The first time Yuri had gotten sick, he only had Yakov and Lilia to call, a memory he tries daily to forget. 

Finding nothing, he sends a quick text to Maria to check in. His eyes flick up when Galina tries the spin again, this time following his advice and forming a beautiful arch. She looks at him, waiting for his trademark smile and positive overreaction. 

He just nods, keeping it restrained. “Better. Let me see it with the lead-in part of your step sequence.”

Galina smiles, and Victor knows it is an apt reward. Galina’s steps are her trademark, even at such a young age.

He sighs as she settles into the flowing choreography. Galina is in for the hard life of artist in a cutthroat sport more suited to technical prowess, but the world will have to make room for her. Yakov will have to make room for her among his jumping circus acts. 

She stumbles over a particularly nasty crossover, but turns it into a quick spin, one leg tucked behind the other. 

He laughs, letting her hear him as he skates out to meet her. “Good try, Galya. You might fool the judges–”

“But not my choreographer!” she finishes for him, wagging a finger like a school mistress.

“Are you suggesting I’m a strict teacher?” Victor says, clutching his chest in mock mortification.

Galina just shrugs, smirking. 

They run through her choreography side by side, Victor snapping out the tempo of the music with a free hand, trying to nail her timing. Yakov would scowl if he saw, preferring to shout instructions at his skaters instead of skating with them, but Victor could still do it, so why not?

He sends Galina back to the group for jumping practice after they’re done, gliding over to the barrier to grab a sip of water. When he moves his right leg forward to stop, pain shoots up his leg into his hip, making him almost topple over. 

“Shit,” he hisses, grabbing onto the rink barrier for support before he falls . 

“Vitya! Over here!”

He lifts his head, wheezing through the pain enough to manage a smile at Mila. Trailing her was the dark-skinned Asian boy from her instagram post and Yuuri Katsuki.

“Mila,” he says, smiling at her and the two men, “You’ve made friends?” He responds in English, mimicking her. 

She laughs. “I’m just showing them around. They’re doing Yakov’s summer program this year.”

Victor smiles at them. “That’s amazing! Yakov is very picky, you must be good.”

The  darker-skinned boy gasps, smiling and grabbing Katsuki’s arm. “You’re Victor Nikiforov!”

Mila nods proudly and Victor laughs, rubbing a hand against the back of his neck. “I am. I’m afraid I don’t know your names?” he says, playing dumb.

“I’m Phichit Chulanont. It’s an honor to meet you, your performance at Russian Nationals was inspiring.”

His handshake is firm, and Victor recognizes a networker when he sees one. “Thank you, I was proud of it.”

Phichit moves to the side, pushing Katsuki forward with little subtlety. 

“Uh–  Yuuri Katsuki,” he says, putting a hand out in imitation of Phichit’s.

Victor takes it, but Yuuri drops it after a quick grasp. 

“When does your training begin?” Victor asks quickly, masking any awkwardness of the moment. 

“Tomorrow,” Phichit says, excited smile lighting up his face once more, “Any advice for us?”

Victor can’t help but look at Yuuri again, noticing the lovely blush spreading across his face. Was it from his gaze alone? Victor rests a hand on his hip, flipping his hair back and smiling. 

“Don’t listen to anything Yakov Feltsman tells you.”

Mila laughs, and Phichit joins in. Katsuki smiles out of the corner of his eye. 

“You must be starting your programs for next year now too?” Phichit says, and Mila’s eyes widen behind him. 

“Oh, Phichit–  Yuuri, I’ve been meaning to show you–  this way–” She struggles for coherency, and Victor feels a rush of affection for his friend. 

“My students,” Victor says lamely, not even needing to finish his sentence before Mila wishes him goodbye, followed by her two confused cohorts.

Victor skates away, still parched, having not made it to his water bottle, but if he leaves his students alone much longer they will surely collapse in a pile of failed triple axels. Kostya nails a double flip, followed quickly by Roza, who puts a hand down to the ice. 

“You have to follow through more with your free leg–”

He explains and explains, the pleading expressions of his students obviously asking  _ Can’t you just show us? _ Demonstration is his best teaching technique, but with the pain still snaking up his hip, he knows it’s impossible. 

He sets them back on the path of  _ stone cold repetition _ , running a frustrated hand through his hair at not being able to perform his duties as a coach in the way he wants. He counts down the minutes until it’s time for them to go home, relief hitting him like a ton of bricks when the first parents start to filter inside the rink. 

Galina sulks, and Victor knows it’s a show for him. Pouting as a way to get a last minute pep talk is her specialty, and usually he indulges it. 

Tonight, he waves goodbye and turns his back, skating to the other side of the rink to remove his skates. He pulls off a glove with his teeth and lets it fall to the ground.

“Hmmm… brooding are we?

He looks up as he loosens the laces methodically, Mila standing in the doorway of the skate-sharpening room, eyes trained on him like a hawk. 

“No more than you do after Yakov ignores you.”

Mila shakes her head, smirking. “I see how it is.”

Victor smiles right back, pulling off one skate to the horror of his throbbing hip. 

“Where did your entourage go?” he asks through gritted teeth.

“Back to the dorms,” she says, “Yakov is going to kill them tomorrow.”

Victor huffs out a quick laugh. “You are underestimating him. Mere death is only the beginning.” He braces himself before bending over fully and ripping his other skate off. He gasps, biting his lip through the pain. 

Mila sighs. “Are you alright?”

“I’m wonderful,” he says, wiping the melted ices from the blades and throwing them into in the bag beside him.. 

“Have you been back to the doctor?”

He stands up, carefully shouldering the bag. “No. There’s no point.”

“Just… I don’t understand why you won’t tell Yakov,” she says, wringing her fidgeting hands. “There’s no need for you get hurt training novices. Be careful?” 

Victor smiles. “I’m already hurt, Mila. Or did you forget?”

Mila’s eyes well up, shining in the bright rink lights. Victor kicks himself. 

“I’m sorry. I am,” he says, reaching out to lay a hand on her arm. “How’s training?”

She shrugs, accepting his change in subject. “Good, I guess. Yakov…” She trails off. 

“Yakov what?” Victor asks, immediately tensing up. 

She sighs. “He says he wants to start training me on the triple axel.”

A lump wells up in his throat, but he swallows it down. “Wow! Amazing! You can definitely do it, Mila.”

She shakes her head. “It doesn’t –  it doesn’t feel right, Vitya.”

Her voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. His students and parents have gone, leaving the rink in silence save for the hum of the lights and cooling system. Despite the empty ice, Victor can hear the skid of blades, the sound right before takeoff.

He knows what he  _ should _ say, what anyone would say in these circumstances.  _ Elena would be proud, Elena would be excited _ .

“Yakov knows what’s best for you. You have to trust him.”

Mila nods, looking somewhat unfulfilled. “Are you working at the restaurant tomorrow?”

“Yes. No lessons here, though.”

She straightens up, surreptitiously wiping at her eyes. “And how’s Yura? Is he ready to put skates on yet?”

Victor laughs, shaking his head. “He’s good. Happy, I think. I should get home to him.”

“Of course.” She grabs her own bag at her feet. “Night, Vitya.”

He wishes her goodnight as she enters the women’s locker room, heading for the rink exit with careful steps.

* * *

 

Yuri cries for two days. 

Victor fusses around the kitchen, looking for his mother’s teacup that matches the one sitting on the table in front of Lilia.  She sits with her arms crossed, tapping a finger on her elbow. Yuri fusses in his high chair; tear-tracks stain his cheeks from the last bout of crying. 

“You look terrible, Vitya,” she says, while he continues to rummage through the cupboard.

He swallows back the lump in his throat, locating the errant teacup at the back of shelf. He sets it down in front of his own chair without sitting, flashing her a smile.

“You look stunning, Lilia.”

She purses her lips, tightening the cross of her arms even more to his surprise. “We’re not here to talk about me.”

“I was under the impression that we were having a Sunday afternoon visit, not an intervention.”

Lilia shakes her head. Her eyes follow him as he hoists Yuri from his high chair, settling in the seat next to Lilia with him balanced on his knee. He bounces him lightly, trying to keep his spirits up from erupting into another crying bout. Lilia stares at him, clearly trying to perfect an insult that could make a negative out of Victor holding a baby.

“How are your students?” She asks instead. 

Victor sighs. “Coming along. Galya’s step sequence is good–  Juniors shouldn’t be a problem for her.”

“She doesn’t come to dance as often as she should.”

“I’ll have a word with her parents.”

Yuri hiccups softly, his tiny shoulders hitching and Victor braces himself for the next onslaught. Yuri starts to cry again just as he slings him over his shoulder, rubbing his back in soothing circles and standing up to rock him slightly. 

“Shhh, Yura it’s alright–”

“Are you not feeding him?” Lilia says, examining her nails. 

Victor shoots her a look. He’s reminded of his first few weeks with Yuri, where the newborn had cried and cried until Victor had nearly collapsed from the lack of sleep and Lilia’s visits had been much more frequent.

“Of course I do. What kind of question is that?” 

Lilia just shrugs. “There’s no reason for melodramatics.”

Victor swallows, wishing she were gone just as Yuri starts to wail; long, breathless cries Victor is always unable to soothe with bottles or diaper changes. He stands, hoping the motion will help.

“How’s your tea?” he nearly shouts over the cacophony. 

“Fine,” she says, glancing at her untouched beverage, “Remind me again, Vitya. Why are you not competing?”

If he hadn’t been holding Yuri, Victor would have kicked a chair over, or at the very least slammed his fist on the counter. He settles for shooting her an angry glance over his shoulder. 

“I have a child to care for, Lilia.”

She blinks. “Yes, I see that. And with competition you would make money. Money would help you care for Yuri.”

Victor grabs a bottle from the drying rack, going through the motions of making another bottle of formula that he knows won’t soothe Yuri’s fit. 

“Elena quit skating when she had him. She didn’t want to be an international athlete while mothering a child.”

“Foolish girl,” Lilia says, and even with his back to her Victor can hear the frown in her voice, “What can you give him, in your current state?”

Victor whips around, nearly knocking over the container of formula. “Goddammit, I can love him! He can have a normal life this way, like Elena wanted for him.”

Lilia just stares at him, drumming her fingers against her upper arm once more. His ancient washing machine hums and clangs intrusively in the silence. 

He sighs. “Sometimes I wish you had small talk in you, Lilia. Just so I didn’t have to feel this way every time you came to visit.”

Lilia clicks her tongue, finally uncrossing her arms and standing up. She shoulders her bag and heads to the door, looking back with a turn of her head. 

“We had such high hopes for you, Vitya.”

She closes the door behind her with a soft click, but Victor wishes that it had been a slam. Yuri squirms in his arms, his crying fit settling into soft whimpering.

Victor kisses the top of his head. “I know, Yura, I know.”

He carries him to the bathroom. Still bouncing Yuri lightly against his hip, Victor runs a worn washcloth under the warm water, washing away the tear tracks from Yuri’s face and the snot from under his nose. 

“There we go,” he mutters as Yuri settles against his shoulder, tiny hands balled into loose fists as his eyes fall closed. 

Victor carries Yuri to the side room, laying him down for a afternoon nap. He smoothes the soft hair away from his forehead, the evidence of Yuri’s tantrum still present in the flush on his cheeks. It seems all is forgotten, for now. 

He takes advantage of the moment to snap a few items of clothing down from the line against the opposite wall while Yuri sleeps, despite their slight dampness. He folds several of Yuri’s outfits and shoves them in the chest of drawers against the wall. His own clothes are wrinkled, wanting for the iron. He sets up the board while the iron heats up, the old machine clicking and sputtering to life. He fills it with water from a half-drunk plastic bottle sitting on his side table. 

His phone buzzes from where it sits on the ironing board as he smoothes out one of his work shirts. Mila’s name lights up the screen, a photo message shown in miniature. He sets the iron down to swipe it open. 

It turns out to be a video, the quality grainy and blurred, but Victor can make out the rink, the stone-serious face of Yuuri Katsuki as he preps a jump –  a salchow by the looks of it – taking off and nailing one-two-three– 

A quad. 

He lands, albeit somewhat shakily, to the applause of others surrounding the rink. Victor can see the smile lighting up his shy face before the video cuts short. 

_ I’m going to do a quad someday, Vitya. Not just once either, but every time I compete. Why should you boys have all the fun? _

Victor bites his bottom lip, playing the video over and over until his iron hisses from needing more water and Elena’s voice feels more like a whisper and less like a scream in his head. The sun warms to an early evening gold by the time he receives a second message from Mila. 

_ Things are heating up at summer camp. _

He smiles, the laugh coming out more like a huff than anything else. Yuri begins to fuss from the other room, and Victor sets the ironing aside for the night. 

He leans over the crib. “I thought you would sleep through the night, Yura.” Yuri’s eyes are at half-mast, still somewhat asleep. He reaches up, his hands grasping at air. 

Victor smiles. “Ok. But don’t tell Anna that I’m spoiling you like this.”

He lifts him out of the crib, settling him back against his shoulder as he makes his way back to the sofa. He lays down, and Yuri settles against his chest. Victor’s eyes are heavy, mimicking Yuri’s as he falls back asleep. 

Victor hums softly, more to himself than to Yuri, the old lullaby a standby. His eyes fall shut, the room still lit by the soft light of evening. 

 

* * *

 

 

**_March 10, 2010_ **

_ “Victor! Elena! Stop the talking or I will stop it for you.” _

_ Lilia snaps at them from across the room while adjusting another student, the poor ballerina grimacing as her leg is hoisted unnaturally high into the air. Victor giggles into his hand, lifting a leg to the barre to look like he’s doing something. _

_ “I don’t think Lilia Nikolayevna is amused with how familiar you are getting,” Elena says, whipping her blonde hair into a ponytail before joining him back at the barre. _

_ Victor shrugs, leaning into the stretch until it burns pleasantly. “I live in her house. I eat her terrible cooking. I can hardly take her seriously after that.” _

_ Elena purses her lips, obviously trying to stifle her laughter. She shifts into second position, examining her posture in the mirror. Her hips are wider than they were a few months ago. Elena’s seventeenth year was changing her into a different creature. Victor’s own 15 year old body is still lanky and straight, like a birch tree.  _

_ She catches him looking, and he averts his gaze.  _

_ “Jealous?” she says, tossing her ponytail over her shoulder “My line is improving. Lilia told me so. She said I could have been the Prima Ballerina of the Bolshoi if Yakov hadn’t found me first.” _

_ Elena looks away quickly, realizing that Lilia was quickly approaching them. She raises her eyebrows at Victor’s position, giving it a subtle nod. It’s the best he could hope for.  _

_ When she turns to Elena, who is suddenly practicing graceful and lilting pirouettes, she breaks into a rare smile.  _

_ “Wonderful girl.” _

_ She carries on without further comment.  _

_ Victor frowns after her. “I wonder if she’ll ever give me a compliment.” _

_ Elena shoves him playfully. “Let me have this one. She’s the only one that doesn’t pinch at my hips and tell me to lay off the pirozhki. My mother could take a few lessons from her.” _

_ A laugh threatens to spill from Victor’s chest, but it stops abruptly. _

_ Mothers... _

_ Elena’s face falls. “Oh–  I’m sorry Vitya–  I didn’t mean–” _

_ He shakes his head, turning away. “Don’t be foolish. What, are you supposed to never mention your mother ever again? That’s silly.” _

_ Her reflection meets his eyes in mirror. “I’d do anything for you, Vitya.” _

_ Victor blushes, looking down at his feet.  _

_ She throws an arm around his shoulder. “Come on, it’s almost time to finish up. I bet we can get some rink time now. Show me your triple axel?” _

_ He looks up, shyly meeting her green eyes.  _

_ “Only if you show me yours.” _

* * *

 

“Vitya...”

Victor would have been surprised to see Mila leaning over him and Yuri after a few hours, if he hadn’t given her a key for just such occasions. She lifts the still-sleeping Yuri off of him while he rubs the sleep from his eyes, searching for his phone to check the time. 8 PM. Only an hour had passed.

Mila carries Yuri into the side room, setting him down in the crib before coming out to join Victor on the sofa. They both stare forward for a few beats of silence.

She takes a breath. “I have to say, this is not the worst I’ve found someone after a visit from Lilia.”

Victor snorts, divulging into slightly hysterical laughter. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Remember how my mother wanted to get me therapy because of that one ballet class… what was it?”

Victor laughs harder, speaking through his hands. “Arabesques.”

“Oh that’s what it was! I had totally forgotten.”

Another pause.

“How did you know?”

Mila shrugs. “When Lilia came by the rink talking about ‘ungrateful brats who don’t know what’s good for them’ I knew she wasn’t talking about me so you just were the next logical choice.”

Victor smiles, nudging her playfully with his shoulder. “I’m mad at you. I wanted to stew in my depression tonight.”

Mila shakes her head. “I’m not allowing it. I am here to divert.”

He rakes a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it back into place. “Speaking of diversions, thank you for the video of Katsuki, by the way. He’s fantastic.”

Mila shrugs. “His jumps need work, but he’s definitely the star. I don’t know if he particularly likes that, to be honest. It’s hard to get a read on him.”

“He’ll grow into it.”

“Hmm.” Mila pauses, scratching at her nose. “You’re lucky this sofa feels very comfortable at the moment.”

Victor raises his eyebrows. “You’re kidding, right?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. I’m afraid I need to sit here and keep watch over Yuri for at least a couple hours. What are you going to do in the meantime?”

Victor leans over, giving Mila a loud kiss on the cheek before jumping up. She shoves him away, wiping harshly at her face. 

“Yeah, yeah, enough of that!”

He’s already jumping into his shoes, searching for his gym bag. 

“I owe you, Mila.”

She crosses her arms, her phone in one hand as if she were about to settle in. “Sure you do. Next time I’m taking a depression nap you can come wake me up.”

He blows her a kiss before skipping into the side room to make sure Yuri is settled. He sleeps on, dead to the world, and Victor smiles at his peacefulness. Out in the kitchen, he fixes another bottle of formula and tucks it into the fridge. 

“If Yuri wakes up, give him the bottle.” He stops, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, “I'm not going to lie, he probably will. His sleep schedule is all but fucked today.”

“Watch your language,” is Mila’s only response as she shoves him out the door. He barely shoulders his bag before he's out. 

He heads out of the building at a clip, heading for the metro without much thought, his bag bouncing against his hip. He briefly considers going  _ out _ out, the last time only a vague memory with Mila that involved vodka shots tinted unnatural colors a month after Elena died, but he gets off at the familiar stop nonetheless. He walks in the light of the streetlamps towards the dark sports complex, flipping the key the rink owners had given him when he had begun teaching through his fingers. While unlocking a side door, he notices a light still glowing through a high window. 

The lobby is dark when he walks inside, lit only by whatever is spilling through the glass double doors to the rink. A lone figure drifts over the ice, and Victor readjusts his bag on his shoulder as he enters the brisk air. 

Yuuri Katsuki makes his way slowly around the rink, weaving figures without any frills. He concentrates on his feet, and doesn't seem to notice Victor until he sets his bag down with a thunk. 

Yuuri looks up, stopping in the center of the rink. 

Victor hisses to himself. “Sorry!” He calls across the ice. “Didn't mean to disturb you.”

Yuuri looks around, as if expecting the entire Russian hockey team to flood the ice instead of just Victor. 

“I can– if you need the rink–” Yuuri calls back. 

“Please,” Victor says, turning on the charm, “I wouldn't think of ruining such a beautiful pattern. And there's plenty of space for the two of us.”

Yuuri smiles, the first of its kind that Victor has seen, and the sight of it makes the back of Victor’s neck warm. Yuuri continues with his figures, the pattern undisturbed save for where Victor had interrupted him. 

Victor laces up quickly, pulling his sweats over the tops of his skates. He glides out onto the ice, carefully avoiding Yuuri's space. He sets out for the other end of the rink, beginning his own set of drills to warm up. Definitely not as beautiful as Yuuri’s figures, but his muscles burn pleasantly as he switches edges and loops around the rink. For a while they both work in silence, the whisper of their blades barely audible over the hum of the cooling machines that keep the rink functional in the summer. 

His body is calm, the pain from the other day gone at least for the moment. Yuuri is a quiet practice companion, intent on his own work, and Victor sneaks glances at him when they cross paths. Victor has his own memories of solo practice sessions, hours spent alone after everyone else had left the rink, jumping triples and then quads until his legs would give out beneath him. He admires Katsuki’s restraint to stick to figures.

He starts to drift away from drills, building up speed to try a lackluster sit spin, when Yuuri speaks behind him. 

“Phichit showed me your Nationals free program the day after you won. It was beautiful,” He says as Victor turns around to face him, surprising him with the quality and ease of his English. “I was… surprised when I didn’t see you at Worlds.”

Victor tries to school his face into a neutral expression. 

“Thank you,” he says instead, “I had been slated for the World team, but some things came up, unfortunately.”

Yuuri looks down, shaking his head. “Sorry. None of my business”

Victor cocks his head, drifting to the side of the rink to lean against the barrier. 

Yuuri knew, of course he knew. The headlines in Russia alone had been staggering. But would he bring it up?

Victor’s elbows ache where they’re pressed against the fiberglass barrier.

“Think nothing of it,” he says. 

They stand in silence, and Victor wishes Yuuri would say something, or continue his workout, something to break the uncomfortable silence brought along by a dead figure skater taken from the world too soon. 

He pushes off from the barrier, flashing a smile that had once been described as luminous in the bright rink lights. 

“How about a show?”

Victor enjoys the way Yuuri blushes and stammers his enthusiastic assent. Victor immediately skates to the center of the rink, striking the dramatic first pose that had haunted his dreams and nightmares alike during last year’s competitive season. One hand on his hip, the other braced against his forehead as if caught in a moment of distress. The sweeping strings of his  [ music’s ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jzDnsjYv9A) introduction begin inside his head, his arms sweeping out wide in the first exclamation of  _ dire emotional stress _ . 

Yakov had fought him on the music choice, of course, citing that it was too modern, too frivolous, for an up-and-coming Russian star. Winning that battle had felt like the first step towards the podium. He still finds it rewarding that his first medal-winning performance had been one choreographed by his own hand. 

Every motion is big, overdone like a lady about to succumb to the vapors of overexertion. He doubles his jumps, knowing that it wasn’t worth the potential pain he would feel in the morning if he attempted the triples and quads, but his skates scratch out a wild and sweeping step sequence. The Victor that had choreographed this program thought he knew pain, had thought he was acquainted with the pinnacle of human suffering. 

Victor smirks, almost laughing at his old self now. 

He catches glimpses of Yuuri while skates, gauging his reaction, but he just stands by the rink barrier, hands loose by his sides. Victor flies into a spin, feeling the strain starting in his leg as he moves through the combinations in time with the music in his head. By the time he freezes in his final pose, there’s a dull pain thudding in his hip he knows he’ll feel more in the morning. 

He unfreezes, relaxing but suddenly feeling very shy as Yuuri stares at him, eyes wide. 

He rubs absently at the back of his neck. “Well? I’m a bit rusty but–”

“That was–” Yuuri interrupts, obviously searching for the words. “Wow.”

Victor smiles, crossing his arms, a flirty retort ready on his tongue– 

A high-pitched  _ ding _ interrupts them, however, and Yuuri fishes his phone out of his jacket pocket. He examines it for a moment, eyebrows furrowed. He types something quick, stopping after a moment to look up at Victor. 

“It’s Phichit,” he says, and Victor remembers the Thai boy he had met the other day with Mila. “He found a bar, of course.”

“It’s not difficult to, in St. Petersburg,” Victor jokes. 

Yuuri smiles back. “No. He wants me to come out.” He stops, looking down and fidgeting with the fingers of his gloves. 

“You should!” Victor says, “If I’m correct Yakov gives his international skaters Monday off.”

Yuuri nods, suddenly looking up, eyes firm. “Would you like to come?”

Something settles in Victor’s gut, strange and not altogether unpleasant. Yuuri’s eyes are a deep brown, something he could certainly stand to look at for an evening out.

He shakes his head. “I can’t. I have–  work tomorrow,” he says. 

Yuuri deflates. “Of course, I understand.” He starts to leave the rink, and Victor kicks himself, skating a little faster than is dignified to catch up. 

“Where is it? I could walk you there,” he says to the back of Yuuri’s head. “The streets are confusing during the day, let alone at night.”

Yuuri turns, his face back to its original worried state. “You don’t have to–”

“I know,” Victor cuts him off, “It would be nice–  yes. Nice.”

Why say something once when you can say it three times and look very strange to the cute Japanese boy, he thinks self-deprecatingly. His face burns, and he knows how foolish he must look. 

Yuuri smiles though, seemingly undeterred by Victor’s antics. “Ok. Thank you, Victor.”

Victor’s heart beats a little harder than he is comfortable admitting while Yuuri gives him the address from Phichit’s text message. It was the first time Yuuri had said his name directly.

They both change out of their skates, and Victor slings his bag over his shoulder and shuts off the large rink lights from the breaker box behind the skate rental desk as Yuuri goes to the locker room to change into regular clothes. 

Once they get going, the night is somewhat darker and cooler than when Victor had arrived. 

“Are you sure this is on your way home?” Yuuri asks. 

“Of course,” Victor lies at they set off in the opposite direction of his usual metro station. “Right on the way.”

They walk in silence for a few moments, the street a combination of darkened storefronts and busy night spots. 

“So,” Victor says, “How does the Japanese silver medalist end up in St. Petersburg for the summer?”

It’s hard to see in the dark, but Victor swears that Yuuri is blushing again. 

“What? Did you think you were the only one who spies on other skaters? We were slated for an athletic rivalry. There were bets made and everything.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “The top skater dropped out. It threw the standings–”

“I don’t believe it,” Victor says, “With that PCS score? That was all you.”

“Thank you,” Yuuri says, clearly still flustered. “Didn’t do me much good at Worlds though.”

“International is whole new arena,” Victor says, “This is going to be your year.”

Yuuri shrugs, and Victor resists the urge to drag him under a streetlight and do a play-by-play analysis of his beautiful spin technique from the YouTube video saved on his phone. 

“I haven’t lived in Japan for five years,” Yuuri says, answering his earlier question, “I’ve been in Detroit training, and my coach nominated Phichit and I for this program.”

“That sounds like a good coach to me.”

Yuuri nods. “I’m grateful.”

“I suppose getting punished by Yakov for a month seems like a good opportunity to a foreign coach.”

Yuuri laughs. “He hasn’t been so bad to me, yet.”

“Not with that quadruple salchow,” Victor sneaks in. 

Yuuri groans. “I knew Mila wasn’t facetiming her mother.” 

Victor stops, nearly doubling over with laughter. “Is that what she told you?”

Yuuri nods, smiling at Victor’s response even once they’ve started walking again. 

“You’ll get used to her, I’m afraid to say.”

Victor stops in front of a small bar tucked in between a closed restaurant and a bookstore. “Here you are.”

Yuuri looks up at the clouded window. “I can see Phichit– and he’s drunk already.”

Victor laughs. “You’ll have to catch up.”

Yuuri makes a face, fiddling with the strap of his own bag over his shoulder. “Thank you for walking with me.”

“My pleasure,” Victor says, flashing what he hopes is his best smile. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the rink soon?”

“I hope so,” Yuuri says quickly, looking around as if he was being watched. “Your skating–  thank you for skating for me. It was beautiful.”

Victor’s chest tightens, and in that moment, a very tipsy Phichit Chulanont appears in the open doorway, leaning against the threshold with more grace than should be strictly possible. 

“Yuuuuuuuri… invite Victor in, where are your manners?” Phichit says, his words elongated. He looks at Victor, pointing a long finger at Yuuri. “You’d think he was raised in a gutter.”

Yuuri’s eyes widen but Victor just laughs. “He did invite me, but I had to decline this time.”

Phichit frowns, muttering something like “no fun” under his breath before he grabs Yuuri by the collar, dragging him away. 

Yuuri waves hastily, his goodbye almost indecipherable before he disappears inside the crowded bar. 

Victor laughs to himself as he walks back to the metro station, feeling significantly lighter than he had earlier after Lilia’s visit. He scrolls through his social media accounts while the train shifts slowly beneath his feet–  and if he absently follows  _ Katsuki Yuuri  _ on multiple platforms, at least he has exhaustion to blame. 

  
The first picture at the top of his instagram page is one of the rink, sprawling and empty as if Yuuri had taken it on a night very much like this one. The caption reads:  _ A new adventure. _ Victor smiles, leaning back against the window as the train hurtles him towards home. 


	3. Chapter 3

Victor adjusts the phone against his shoulder, Maria’s agitated voice loud pressed against his ear. He elbows his way through the rink doors, frowning as he heads for the locker room. 

“Victor, I’m happy to do you a favor once in awhile but I have to be firm–”

“You’re not doing me a favor,” he says quickly, setting his bag down and pulling out his skates. “I will pay you for each extra hour. Time and a half if you like.The restaurant wouldn’t let me go, I couldn’t turn down the hours. Anna will pick up Yuri when she comes at five.”

“I can’t allow this every time–  you’ve already been over this month–” 

“Masha,” He says firmly, eyes shut as he leans his forehead against the cool metal of a locker. “Please.”

There’s a pause as Maria shifts the phone to her other ear, sighing deeply as she does so. 

“Five o’clock, Victor.”

“Five o’clock it will be.” He sits down to pull off his shoes. “How’s my Yura?”

“Teething. Along with every other infant in this apartment.”

“I tucked his rattle in the bag–”

“I found it,” she says, “He nearly threw it at my face. See you tomorrow, Victor.”

She hangs up, and he sets the phone on the bench beside him, bending down to lace up his skates in earnest. He starts again once he realizes he had pulled the top laces too tight. His neck aches from holding the phone against his shoulder for so long. His stomach growls uncomfortably, but his beginner class will already be filtering in now. 

His skates fully laced, he takes a moment to drop his head in his hands and breathe. 

Yuri had cried this morning when he left him with Maria, his hands grabbing for the collar of his work shirt as he passed him over to the already exhausted babysitter. Victor had hovered in the doorway, watching as Maria set him into a playpen with another baby, regret pulling at his chest. 

Why had he left Yuri the day before? An hour of ice time with Yuuri Katsuki had felt so freeing the night before, but now...

He grabs the bright orange cones from the corner of the locker room on his way out of the rink, thinking he’ll set up an obstacle course of sorts for his little ones. He sets his blade guards on the rink barrier, skating out to the far side to set up the cones. 

A few summer program students linger on the ice, and Yakov eyes them critically from the barrier. Victor drifts around, setting up his cones and sneaking glances at Yuuri and Phichit from across the rink. Yakov barks orders at them, the frown apparent even from a distance. Victor picks up the words ‘quad’ and ‘running out of time.’ Yuuri skates away, face tense as he builds up speed. 

Victor recognizes the prep like an old friend. The way Yuuri settles on the inside edge of his skate, vaulting off the toe pick, completing three rotations before–  

He falls, knees buckling and his hands hitting ice. Victor winces, but Yuuri stands up again, building up speed for a second try. 

He falls again, almost hitting the barrier. 

And again, after skating around the rink and avoiding Victor’s gaze.

The last time he falls, landing on his back, Victor’s eyes widen with concern when it takes him more than a few seconds to get up. 

“Vitya!”

Victor starts, almost dropping the cone he had forgotten was in his hand. Yakov beckons him over to the other side of the rink. He slowly sets down the cone, suddenly feeling very foolish under the eye of the international skaters flanking each side of the rink. Yuuri is off to the side, brushing snow off his pants and making a point to not look at him. 

“Yes?” Victor asks when he reaches Yakov.

Yakov crosses his arms, mouth settled into a frown. “My students need to see a proper quadruple flip.”

Victor worries at a piece of dry skin on his bottom lip. He bites back his instinctual retort.  _ And what does that have to do with me? _

Instead he only nods, posture straightening and lengthening as he skates away, building up momentum. His stomach clenches as the arena blurs around him. His body knows what to do, and he settles into the prep with ease, launching into the air and landing without a hitch. With all the rotations.

Pain explodes in his leg, radiating up his hip and nearly taking him down, but he fights to stay upright as noise erupts around him. Someone is whooping like they would at a football match, and more than a few bystanders clap. He smiles even as his vision blurs, fighting against his instinct to grab at his injured side and limp off the ice. He ducks out of the rink, keeping his strides even as he rushes for the nearest barrier exit, not even bothering to grab his blade guards before collapsing on the bench, gasping from the pain. 

Thankfully everyone has returned to their previous tasks, and few eyes linger on him as a few tears slips from the corner of his eyes, the pain sharp and spiking from his landing leg up to his side. He buries his faces in his hands, hoping to ride out the sensation before his students begin to arrive.

“Are you alright?” 

He looks up to Yuuri Katsuki dropping to a knee in front of him, dark eyes flooded with concern. 

Victor swallows, forcing himself to hold his gaze. “Yes. It’s just–  yes. I’m fine. Thank you.”

Yuuri doesn’t seem convinced.

“I’ll get you a cold-pack–”

“No!” Victor winces at the thought of cold against this type of pain, “It won’t help. I just need to sit.” He flashes his best flirtatious smile under the circumstances. “Keep me company?”

Yuuri succumbs to it, fortunately, and settles on the bench next to Victor. Victor watches him for a moment, the way he examines others on the rink and shifts in his seat, as if deciding whether or not to say something. 

“I’ve never seen a quad flip so beautiful–  it seemed impossible,” he says finally.

Victor laughs, a dark sound as he leans back to rest his head against the wall. “Thank you. Yakov always said it would be my signature move one day. Such a foolish thing.”

“You were the first.” Yuuri states matter-of-factly and without inflection.

Victor purses his lips. “Yes. In competition at least. Though there’s still debate over the edge quality of the landing.”

Yuuri looks at him. “And what do you say?”

Victor blinks. “I couldn’t tell you. I was just happy to be upright.”

Yuuri laughs and nods, looking back toward the ice. Victor recognizes the look on his face. 

“You’ll get it. One day it will just,” Victor snaps his fingers. “Click.”

Yuuri nods. “I hope so.”

“You have the take-off, but you flail a little on the landing. Follow through will come with time.”

Yuuri nods. “That’s what Yakov was saying before I tried the jumps, that I need to go against my body’s base instincts. I understood, but then he asked me to try it right in front of everyone. I knew it wouldn’t work.”

“Yakov will push you.” Victor says, “Don’t be afraid to push back once in awhile.”   
  
They sit in silence for a moment, Victor feeling comfortable in the quiet as his students start to filter in. Mila meets Polina at the door, bending down to distract the little girl before she runs over to Victor to give him the latest news in her small world.

The words fall from his mouth before he can stop them. 

“It’s nerve damage.” 

Yuuri turns back to him, eyes wide and lips slightly parted.

“You don’t have to–”

“I know,” Victor interrupts. “I know. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I just–  no one knows. Except Mila. And I some days that’s worse than what would happen if they did know.”

Yuuri nods again, this time holding his gaze. “I understand.”

Victor runs a hand through his hair. “I’m very foolish. You’ll come to learn this.”

Yuuri laughs, shaking his head. “Victor, I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

There he goes, saying Victor’s name again with the same blinding sincerity. 

“Ahh.” He clenches his jaw, standing up slowly to see if his leg will abide the weight. The pain recedes a bit, more muscular now than before, the burning gone. “Duty calls. Must teach the children.”

“Victor?”

He turns, concern laid bare on Yuuri’s features. “Yes?”

Yuuri sits back, hitching up a leg to start untying his skates. “I would have sat with you anyway. Without the injury.” He smiles after the words leave his mouth, looking altogether horrified and pleased with himself at the same time.

Victor smiles. “That so? Huh.”

He turns away, making no effort to hide his own smile when he faces his line of students by the rink entrance. 

“Ok little fish, what are Victor’s rules for being out on the ice?”

Laughter bubbles up behind him, and Victor knows that if he were to look over his shoulder he would be treated with the sight of Yuuri smiling again. 

He clenches his teeth through his beginner class, thankful they aren’t attempting anything besides a very wobbly and basic crossover at this point. The pain begins to fade, and he settles into the routine. Polina whizzes around the rink, he short legs carrying her faster than any of his other students, and he chases after her numerous times to bring her back into the fold. He catches Yuuri watching him from the sidelines a few times, but if someone said that he was enjoying the attention he would deny it up and down the wall. 

“You’re preening like a parrot,” Mila says, appearing on one side of the rink while parents come to pick up their children, and he wishes each student goodbye.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, flipping his hair out of his face dramatically once his final student is gone from the ice. He looks around, but Yuuri has disappeared. 

“He finally had to leave, his friend dragged him away,” Mila says, following his eyeline. 

“Who?”

Mila rolls her eyes, already in street shoes and walking away before he can continue. “You are ridiculous.”

Victor watches her go, eyebrows furrowed. Mila could be an enigma sometimes.

He gathers the cones off of the rink and stows them away in the locker room, mood a bit more somber than before. It’s Tuesday, and his novice students only come Wednesday through Friday. He’s grateful for the earlier night, the pain starting to fester again once he sits down to pull his skates off. 

He stops at the store on the way to the metro, barely slipping in ten minutes before closing time to grab a bag full of baby food and a package of diapers along with some basic foodstuffs to fill his empty fridge. He counts out his change carefully at the cashier. 

The metro is blissfully on time and he weaves his way up to his apartment building, juggling his gym bag and grocery bags in the narrow stairwell. He keys into his apartment quietly. 

“No need to creep around like a robber, this one is still wide-eyed,” Anna calls from Yuri’s little room. 

Victor can’t help but smile. He sets his purchases down onto the table, joining Anna in the side room. The old woman stands with her arms crossed, watching a wide-eyed Yuri sitting up in his crib with only mild disapproval. 

“Yuratchka!” Victor says, swooping in and scooping Yuri out of his crib. “You are supposed to be sleeping!”

Anna shakes her head. “You only spoil him more.”

“Fantastic,” he says in English, the sharp syllables bringing a gurgly laugh out of Yuri. 

They return to the main room, Victor keeping Yuri on his hip while he starts heating up the last of the leftover stew for his own dinner. Anna gets her things together.

“How was Maria?” Victor asks tentatively. 

“Sour,” Anna replies. “But not as much as she should have been.”

Victor frowns. “I had to take the extra hours.”

“Hmm,” Anna only replies. Victor goes to his bag, counting out Anna’s pay for the evening. She tucks it into her purse, bending down to kiss Yuri’s forehead before nodding her goodbye. 

He ignores the feeling settling in his gut, stirring his stew and bouncing Yuri lightly to keep him happy. 

“Little Polina is going to be something someday, Yuratchka. Your should have seen her fly around that rink. I even made Otabek smile a bit tonight, such a serious little one he is,” he rambles, always finding Yuri to be a good listener. 

“And your Uncle Vitya… well I did something I shouldn’t have.” He swings Yuri up to his delight, the baby letting out a happy scream when he settles him into his high chair. “But the ice calls, my little sun, it always calls. Maybe you’ll understand some day.”

_ But it’s ok if you don’t _ , he thinks, to keep himself in check as he spreads a few cheerios on his highchair table. 

He spoons himself a bowl of stew before sitting down at the table with Yuri, stirring it to cool it off while Yuri palms somewhat successfully at his cheerios. He seems content, not the teething, writhing mass of anger he had dropped off at Maria’s in the morning. He leans forward to peek inside Yuri’s mouth and sure enough there’s a small, white tooth poking up from his gums. 

“Would you look at that…” Victor whispers to himself, unsure of what he is feeling. 

Yuri’s wide-eyed stare turns half-lidded as the minutes tick on, and Victor sets his spoon down to lift Yuri from his seat and carry him back to the side room. 

He starts humming a  [ lullaby ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bU8rB_Sswdo) as soon as he parts the curtain, rubbing soothing circles on Yuri’s back. Yuri, ever the intent audience, listens defiantly as Victor lowers him into the crib, the words beginning to form in earnest as he clumsily sings the old tune. He eyes fall closed after the first verse, however, his tiny hands in loose fists above his head. Victor smoothes his hair back from his head before checking the night light and quietly leaving Yuri to sleep. 

He hums to himself as he settles back at the table, absentmindedly eating his dinner while pulling the stack of mail and bills towards him, bracing himself for the worst. 

He always writes the rent check first, knowing without a doubt that they need a roof over their heads. Then comes the heat and electricity, high this month from the cold start to Spring. His phone, an expensive necessity, comes last, the bill having risen from last month. He grimaces at each check before stuffing them in their own envelopes, checking and double checking the amounts for accuracy, subtracting his earlier shopping trip hastily and having to rewrite several checks. 

In the midst of it all, his phone buzzes, Mila’s name lighting up on the screen.

_ I’m sorry I snapped at you. _

Ah, so Mila was angry earlier. 

Victor frowns, setting the phone aside to deal with tomorrow. He stacks each envelope neatly, ready to be mailed in the morning, before going to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He’s brushing his teeth when the phone buzzes again from its place on the charger. Toothbrush still in his mouth, he walks over to it to peer at the message.

_ I shouldn’t snap at you for being happy. _

Victor spits out the toothpaste in the sink, rinsing his mouth out as a strange feeling settles over him. It follows him in his sleep, his dreams unsettling and hard to remember. 

* * *

 

 

There's a paper cup with a tea bag string hanging out of the side of it sitting on the rink barrier the next day while he waits for his novices to all get on the rink, Galina dragging her feet most of all. Yuuri waits shyly next to it, holding his own cup. 

“We went to get coffee after training,” he explains, nodding toward the cup, “I thought maybe I could bribe you into letting me practice more while you taught your class?” He asks hopefully. 

Victor smiles, happily taking the cup and inhaling the warm aroma of the spiced tea. “You would be correct.” 

Yuuri sobers up, leaning against the barrier. “Are you sure you don't mind?”

“Mind?” He snags Galina as she tries to sneak by him onto the rink, “Galya, would you mind if the Japanese silver medalist and international competitive skater Katsuki Yuuri practices a bit while we have our class?”

Galina’s eyes widen to saucers. She stumbles over her very rudimentary English. “I don't–  that–”

Victor stifles his laughter and shoos her away before turning back to Yuuri. 

“That's all the motivation they'll need today. I might as well go home.” 

Having Yuuri on the ice does prove to be a minute distraction, but a welcome one for the novice skaters so used to watching either each other or other Russian skaters. They pretend to practice spins while Yuuri repeats a particularly difficult jump combination until it looks polished, whispering behind their hands. Victor corrals them as best he can, giving orders to practice spins and jumps that end up turning into “ooh and aah over the foreign skater” time. Victor even gets caught up in the moment when Yuuri flashes them a smile and imitates their spins with expert flair. Clearly not used to being the center of attention, Victor can see his blush from across the rink. 

Only Galina remains somewhat unimpressed, practicing alone off to the side. She starts practicing her double axel, per Victors instructions, lapsing into lazy figures and crossovers when she has several failed attempts, an approximation of her program’s step sequence. 

He wants to snap at her, her lazy skating not only pointless but detrimental to building a solid program, but he leaves her to her brooding and instead seeks out Yuuri. 

“Can I ask you a favor?” He whispers theatrically. 

“Of course,” Yuuri says earnestly, coming to stop near him. 

“Galina is gonna get a PCS score to rival yours one day, but her jumps aren’t catching up.” He points the girl out where she drifts toward the side of the rink. “She needs a little… motivation. Something that isn't coming from me.”

Yuuri looks apprehensive. “I'm not a teacher. I don't know if I would say the right thing.” 

“I bet you would,” Victor says, “And I can translate! Unless it would truly make you uncomfortable. Your axels are legendary, she needs you!”

Yuuri smirks, rolling his eyes ever so slightly before skating away towards Galina. Victor follows, feeling victorious. 

Victor catches up to him as Yuuri is introducing himself in English to a frozen Galina. Victor quickly translates, not able to keep the smile off his face. 

“Yuuri would like to see some of your program, Galya. Is that ok with you?” 

Galina doesn't answer, skating away with a flash to take her place in a dramatic pose in the middle of the rink. Victor wishes he had the stereo system hooked up with her music belatedly, when she moves into her first choreographic sequence, arms wide as if the sweeping beginning of song had filled the stadium already. She takes off, building speed for her first jump, the double axel–  

She touches down with one  hand, but Yuuri claps enthusiastically beside him. Victor nods approvingly at the way she doesn't show any frustration, launching into her next jump, a perfect triple salchow, her favorite by far. 

Next is the step sequence, and this is where she shines. Her movements are in time enough that Victor could snap out the beat and she wouldn’t miss a step. 

“Good extension. The foundation is all there.” Yuuri looks at Victor. “You should be proud. Is she in juniors?”

Victor beams. “Not yet. She’ll premiere this fall in the junior Grand Prix qualifiers. If Yakov accepts her, of course.”

Yuuri nods. “Did he choreograph her program?”

Victor crosses his arms. “No, I did.”

Galina finishes, freezing in her last pose with drama as if an imaginary audience was already leaping to its feet. 

Yuuri joins the imaginary applause, turning to Victor. “She’s very lucky to have you, then.”

He starts to skate away, and Victor follows until he realizes the rest of his skaters are leaning against the barrier.

“Hey! This isn’t a free show, why do I not see practicing?” He skates over to them, setting them up in speed building drills before glancing back at where Yuuri and Galina are speaking a combination of Russian and hand gestures that could be understood by all. Yuuri demonstrates a perfect double axel, freezing in the landing position and indicating for her to mimic him. She immediately displays the landing position, Yuuri expertly helping her work backwards through the jump until she’s ready to try it again. 

She nails it. With a shaky ankle, but landed nonetheless. 

As the days pass, it becomes a bit of a ritual, and his students adjust to Yuuri Katsuki’s presence after a few times. Yuuri practices while Victor teaches, mostly remaining inconspicuous but always available to demonstrate when Victor knows he won’t be able to land a particular jump with good form. Sometimes Phichit joins him and they train together, but there’s a cup of tea waiting for Victor each night after his beginner classes, bought from his favorite cafe down the road he seldom gets to visit with his work hours. Yuuri won’t accept repayment for them, and Victor stops asking. 

Which is why when Victor looks up to see the barrier empty one evening he’s disappointed. He looks around as his own students warm up, hoping to see the dark-haired head among the crowd. 

Phichit appears beside him, stopping and spraying a bit of snow on Victor’s skates.

“He had an ankle problem today during practice,” he says, a smug smile on his friendly face. 

“Huh?” Victor says quickly. “Who?”

Phichit shoots him a playful look. “Who do you think?”

A flush creeps up his neck. “Oh, Yuuri. Yes. Is he alright?”

Phichit nods, leaning casually back against the barrier. “He’s fine. He had some pain so Yakov sent him back to the dorms to rest. He works too hard.”

“His dedication is inspiring.”

Phichit grins at him, as if he knows a secret that Victor is ignorant of. 

“Yuuri is certainly a treasure. He thinks highly of you as well.”

Victor’s stomach twists. “Oh–  well–”

Phichit laughs. “I’m only teasing! Don’t let me ruin it.”

Victor doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he settles for crossing his arms and yelling a vague direction at Roza, who looked like she was going for the “most traveling during one spin” award. 

“Hey!” Phichit says, fishing around in his pocket. “I think you’re the only person here I haven’t gotten a selfie with!”

Victor smiles, relaxing somewhat when Phichit finds his phone, pausing to look up at him. 

“Do you mind?”

Victor gives his best camera-ready smile. “Of course not! Just get my good side, ok?”

Phichit laughs as he stretches his arm out, throwing up a peace sign as he captures the moment. He immediately bends over his phone, typing out a caption underneath the picture for an instagram post. 

_ Just hanging out with the Russian silver medalist! #starstruck _

“Oh,” Victor starts, frowning, “Would you mind not captioning it with that?”

Phichit immediately deletes the words. “Oh, I’m sorry.” He re-types,  _ With the very gracious Victor Nikiforov! _ “Is that better?”

Victor nods, turning back to his students. Galina seems to have already thrown herself in jumping practice, her axel more confident than ever since Yuuri had helped her. 

Phichit, thankfully, doesn’t comment on Victor’s strange request. Most would be proud of it, or making their country proud. Victor’s medal sits in a box under Yuri’s crib, untouched for months. 

He shifts, putting his weight on his good leg. 

“Will Yuuri train tomorrow?” He asks, not wanting to seem rude. 

Phichit nods. “As long as he doesn’t come here at 3AM and blow out his knee.”

Victor laughs along with Phichit, even though the joke sets something off in his gut. 

“I’m glad,” he says instead, not wanting to show his apparent discomfort. 

“You two are  _ too _ adorable,” Phichit says sincerely.

Victor freezes, fingers digging into his arms where they cross. He looks down at Phichit, seeing nothing but kindness on the man’s face; it doesn’t matter. His stomach clenches, the nerves spreading down to his toes. 

“Please don’t assume something like that.” The words fall from his mouth, more venomous than he intended. “I–  that’s not what is happening here. I don’t want rumors that could harm myself  _ or _ Yuuri to start spreading around–” His voice goes from cold anger to desperation. “I didn’t mean to mislead–”

Phichit throws up his hands, expression mortified enough to add guilt to Victor’s cornucopia of current emotions. 

“Oh my God, I’m  _ so _ sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anything–  well I guess I did but–”

Phichit babbles on and on, but Victor stops him, his nerves too shot to hear more. “It’s ok. We can forget all about it. Excuse me.”

He skates away, weaving through his students and trying to concentrate as his mind reels. The flash of headlights burns through his head, impact shattering his concentration as the car spins over the slick winter road. Yuri screams, Victor reaches out to grab for something–  anything to hold onto. 

Elena’s hair whips around her face like shroud.

He dismisses his class as soon as he sees the first parent enter through the double doors, heading for the locker room before anyone can call for him. He sinks down against a locker, his skates clumsy and too big as his legs buckle beneath him. He buries his head between his knees, trying to breathe through the sobs wrenching his body. 

_ I shouldn’t snap at you for being happy. _

Mila’s message had confused him beyond measure. Happy? He hadn’t known the meaning of happy in a long time, not without Elena on the rink with him, not without her voice, not without her here to raise her son that was her spitting image–  

But here he had been–  throwing her memory to the wind for all to see with a man he barely knew.

Yakov always said that guilt worked better than any acid if you wanted to eat away at a soul. If you wanted something from them. Did Elena want him broken? Something tells him it’s better to be safe. 

His sobs start to calm as he breathes through them, and he wipes the tears away. Immediately, he regrets yelling at Phichit, at blaming the fact that Yuuri was a man for his behavior. He undoes his skates slowly, methodically cleaning the melted snow from them with a rag from his bag. 

He leaves the rink through a side door, heading out into the balmy summer evening. 

 

* * *

 

_ June 12, 2016 _

_ Victor fidgets in the waiting room of the drab Doctor’s office, the carpet looking old enough to have collectivized and revolted against the bourgeois. He taps his heel against it, needing to channel some of his energy, until the stern-looking receptionist glares at him through desk window.  _

_ He raises a hand in apology, trying to muster his most charming smile. “Sorry!” _

_ She grimaces and slams the window shut. Well, he supposes the Nikiforov charm can’t work on  _ everyone.

_ At that moment, Elena emerges from the exam room door. She clutches her bag close to her body, her blonde hair pulled back into a hasty ponytail as she looks down at a paper. _

_ He stands, striding over to her before she even looks up.  _

_ “Well?” he asks, his chest tight.  _

_ She looks up at him, pursing her lips. She nods.  _

_ Anger surges through him. “If I ever get my hands on that Plisetsky–” _

_ “You will do nothing,” Elena finishes for him, eyes hard. “It won’t change anything, Vitya. He’s gone. Whether he comes back or not.” _

_ Victor softens, taking the results paper from her and laying a gentle hand on her arm, cognizant of the receptionist’s eyes on them. _

_ “Come on,” he says, leading her into the deserted hallway of the medical complex.  _

_ She leans against the wall, running a hand over her face. Her mascara runs slightly in the corners of her eyes, bleeding into dark circles he hadn’t noticed before.  _

_ He swallows, making a decision. “Elena.” _

_ She turns to him, eyes distant. “Yes?” _

_ He moves to stand in front of her, lightly grasping her shoulders as he looks into her eyes.  _

_ “He’s gone. But I’m here. Please, let me help. I can–  I can get a job and help you through this. We can find a place, I’m sure Yakov would help us–  and once you have the baby you can go back to skating–” _

_ “Vitya…” _

_ He surges on, desperate to get the words out. “We could get married. We could–  you know, Elena. You must know I–  I would do anything for you.” _

_ Elena softens against him, the tension leaving her shoulders. She reaches up, laying a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him forward with the gentlest of pressure.  _

_ Her lips taste like tears against his, but he kisses back with gentle pressure.  _

“ _ Vitya…” she says again, pulling away. “No.” _

_ His eyes fly open, the bliss from the kiss washed away. “But why? I would be so good to you, Elena–” _

_ “Victor Nikiforov.” The weight of his full name hits him like a punch to his gut. “I will not allow you to give up everything you’ve worked for. Not for me. Not as long as I’m alive.” _

_ Tears prick at his own eyes, but he backs up, putting space between them. “If that is what you want–  of course. I’m sorry if I made things–  uncomfortable.” _

_ She laughs, a lighter sound than he expected. “It’s not you, Vitya. Never you.” _

 

* * *

 

Victor works his shift at the restaurant the next day as if in a fog, his leg throbbing as if in  punishment for some unknown crime. By the time he’s ready to punch out, it’s a steady burning pain radiating up his entire side. 

“Are you alright?” Antonin asks as the head waitress counts out his tips.

Having little patience, he only nods before leaving the restaurant without another word. 

Serving tables with a smile while gritting his teeth through the pain had sapped the majority of his energy for the day, and he mounts the four flights of stairs to his apartment with a near grimace.

Yuri absorbs his bad mood like a sponge once they’re back in their two little rooms, crying and banging his fiss on the tray when Victor puts him in the high chair, the rattling setting Victor’s teeth on edge. He refuses to eat despite Victor’s best efforts, knocking the spoon out of his hands and smearing the baby food on Victor’s last clean shirt. 

It’s almost 6:30 when he’s grabbing a somewhat clean shirt to spray fabric refresher on from the laundry basket when Anna keys herself into the apartment, immediately clicking her tongue at the overflowing basket of laundry by the door that he fishes through and the general unkempt state of the apartment. 

_ Use your words _ , he wants to say,  _ Give me a reason to yell. _

He holds himself back, however, kissing a grumpy Yuri on the head before grabbing his gear bag and heading out the door again. At least he only has his novices tonight. 

The rink is busy when he gets there, a hockey practice just ending and Yakov’s students on the ice to get a bit of last-minute training in. Mila and Victor’s former rinkmates are gone for a regional gala performance tour for the next week, but the international students skate freely, talking and laughing as if they had the run of the place. He sighs, about to fill his lungs and yell for everyone to clear the rink for his class, when he spots the paper cup sitting on the rink barrier, steam curling up from it into the chilled air.

Yuuri skates over to the barrier where Victor stands, smile radiant on his face. Something about it makes Victor want to punch a wall. 

“Victor!” He calls, “I’m sorry I–”

“Excuse me,” Victor interrupts, “I have to get ready for my class.”

He turns, already heading away when Yuuri responds. 

“Ok... I’ll talk to you later then?”

He stops, turning back towards Yuuri on his heel. He clenches his jaw, the pain almost overwhelming. 

“I can’t be distracted every time I have a class,” He snaps, “I’m being paid to do a job, Yuuri. You and your summer camp friends should remember that this is a business.”

Yuuri crumples under his words. “Of course. You’re–  I’m sorry.”

Yuuri skates away, leaving Victor with the receding throb of his own anger. He immediately regrets his words, itching to call Yuuri back, to apologize as he watches Yuuri return to the other skaters, the frown evident from even a distance. 

He sighs, heading for the locker room, changing into his skates. He takes deep breaths, trying to calm the storm inside of him before going out to meet his students. 

Galina is clearly in one of her moods when he skates out to meet them, and he ignores her and instead gets the rest of his students running through their programs. Training for the junior Grand Prix Qualifiers would start soon, and they would be Yakov’s students. The more refined their programs were now, the better off they would be. 

“Kostya, do that jump again–  I’m not going to abide sloppiness.”

The boy shoots him a look, and Victor all at once regrets his choice to not be a stricter teacher. 

“Roza, keep your free leg out longer, that almost looked two footed–”

His students quietly fix their mistakes under his onslaught, but Galina mopes near the rink barrier, the only one not snapping to attention. She practices slow, sloppy figures, ignoring his instructions to run her program. 

“Galina! Stop wasting time! I’ll tell Yakov to keep you in novices for another year if you don’t start moving!”

She shoots daggers at him with her eyes, skating away from the barrier. She begins her routine, the spite clear in each of her movements. She approaches her first jump, the axel, swinging out too viciously with her free leg. She falls on the landing, knees hitting the ice hard enough to make a sound across the arena. 

Victor gasps, making to skate towards her, the nastiness of her fall apparent in the way she lies on the ice, one hand over her face. He steps forward to push off, a motion as familiar as breathing to him–  

The pain goes from steady radiation to screaming insistence, writhing through him. He gasps, clutching his side as his knee buckles and hits the ice. He tries to stand, his vision swimming from the exertion.

“Are you alright, Victor Ivanovich?” Galina asks, somehow right next to him. No, that couldn’t be right, Galina had just fallen. She had looked injured, but now she looks no worse for wear. 

“I’m sorry,” he says to no one in particular, the mishmash of his students and their parents gathering around the rink barrier. He grits his teeth, trying to offer a reassuring smile. “I–  think I have to cancel tonight’s class. I’m not feeling well.”

Worse than the anger he had expected, his students and their parents respond with devastating sympathy. 

“Is it a cold? Masha said something was going around the school–”

“I know the best borscht recipe, should get you right back on your feet–”

He feels the heat behind his eyes, and knows he has to get out of there. He makes sure each of the novices is off the ice before wishing everyone a hasty goodnight, heading for the locker room as fast as his broken body would allow. 

He collapses on a bench, breathing heavy. The pain recedes now almost back to nothing, but tears fall down his face from the release of the tension. He nearly laughs, crying in the locker room is quickly becoming his trademark. 

He gets his phone out to check the time. He still has two hours before Anna expects him home. He bites his lip, knowing he should go home and be with Yuri, especially when he’s feeling so low. But how could he bring this home to him? He feels toxic, like anything he touches will be tainted. 

He rips off his skates unceremoniously, throwing them into his bag. Energy courses through him, adrenaline leftover from his body fighting the pain; the doctor had said it might happen. He’ll take advantage of it while he can. 

Once out of the rink and back out into the humid air, his feet carry him to the bar that he had dropped Yuuri off at the first day they met, despite its unfamiliarity to him. He doesn’t want to seem anyone he knows. 

It’s already packed with locals and tourists alike. It’s much trendier than what he was used to, Mila and him preferring a quieter bar scene to clubs. He pays the small cover, shouldering his way through the crowds to get through the bar past the small dancefloor. People talk around him in a multitude of languages, laughing and drinking and yelling when the song changes. 

He orders a drink from the stone-faced bartender, ignoring the stool next to him in favor of leaning against the sticky bar. A couple next to him argues, their gestures big enough to hit people walking by. They yell in rapid Russian, and he smirks at the way it makes a group of tourists frown nervously. 

His drink arrives wordlessly. He slides some money across the counter without looking, turning around to lean back and watch the scene. He sips at the drink; the vodka tastes like an old friend, having been his only familiar companion in the weeks after Elena died. 

He drains the glass quickly, ordering another along with a shot, opening a tab at the bartender’s silently raised eyebrow. He downs the shot quickly, the warmth spreading from his belly to his fingertips. A dark-haired woman asks him to dance. He turns her down with a shake of his head. 

The bartender begins to guess his next order, lining up the drinks and the shots until the next time the woman asks him to dance, he doesn’t turn her down.

The dance floor is crowded, full of sweating, writhing bodies that move like snakes in the dark. The woman runs her hands up and down his sides, pressing herself against his back. He can smell her perfume, feel the scratchy material of her outfit against his arms. The music beats a constant pulse, and he feels it under his feet. 

After a moment the woman is gone, swallowed by the movements of the crowd where no one really danced with one person. After a moment, he registers yelling in his ear. 

He turns, and Yuuri is in front of him, mouth moving, but Victor can only guess what he’s saying over the volume of the music. Judging by the shine of his eyes and the flush on his cheeks, he’s as drunk as Victor. 

He’s beautiful. 

“Dance?” Victor asks, hoping Yuuri will be able to read his lips. 

Yuuri nods, his hands taking up the place where the dark-haired woman had left, firm against Victor’s ribcage. Victor nearly sighs at the touch, relief coursing through him. Yuuri had been so hurt before, but now he pulls Victor closer, dancing against him.

Yuuri dances like he skates, moving seamlessly even in his drunken state, hips swaying to the beat of the music. Victor moves with him, the lights dancing over them like a spotlight. Yuuri grinds against his hip, leaving little of his intentions to the imagination and Victor rests his hands on Yuuri’s hips, encouraging the movement and mirroring it with his own motions. Yuuri turns, leaning back and resting his head against Victor’s shoulder, baring his throat like an invitation.

Impulsively, Victor thinks about kissing the beautiful expanse of Yuuri’s throat laid bare before him. Somewhere in his sober brain he remembers, no, he hadn’t been invited. Not after the show he put on at the rink today. 

He looks around wildly, aghast that he could forget himself so completely in an unfamiliar club. Couples of all orientations move around them, however. Yuuri must have known this, known that they were safe here. 

He pulls Yuuri closer, seeking to forget himself in the feel of his lithe body under his hands. Yuuri sways against him, the jagged edges of his damaged psyche smooth out like water running down a window pane. Victor dips his hands under Yuuri’s shirt, seeking out the smooth skin of his abdomen, something stirring inside of him when he feels Yuuri’s breath hitch at the touch.

He wishes they were somewhere else. Somewhere where he could whisper in Yuuri’s ear and tell him how beautiful he was, how he wanted to take him apart, how he couldn’t stop thinking about him since they met–  

“Come on,” he says, moving away towards the edge of the dance floor. Yuuri turns, looking at him with some confusion. Perhaps he hadn’t heard him. Victor beckons him with a jerk of his chin, heading towards the restroom, giving him to the choice to follow. 

His stomach swoops when he does.

Yuuri backs him into the small restroom, bolting the door behind him before turning back to Victor. Victor rests his hands on Yuuri’s shoulders, and he feels like fire. Victor presses him  against the door, eyes on his lips.

“Victor…” Yuuri says, hands settling on his hips, urging him closer.

Victor leans in, capturing his mouth in a kiss. It’s sloppy, his finesse gone with the vodka, replaced only with desperation and arousal–  along with the insistent need to be close to the man in front of him. Yuuri groans, kissing back with avid presses of his lips, encouraging Victor to open his mouth and deepen the kiss. Victor immediately surrenders to the plea, huffing through his nose when Yuuri’s tongue strokes against his own. Yuuri arches against him, tilting his head to allow Victor more access. 

Victor’s hands return to Yuuri’s waist, rucking up his shirt under his hands to stroke the skin there, feeling every muscle, every ring of Yuuri’s ribs under his fingers. Yuuri moans, the sound muffled by Victor’s kisses and the vibration shoots right to Victor’s groin. Yuuri’s hands move down from their place at his neck, hitching a leg around Victor’s hip and pulling him closer. His hand moves between them, moving lightly over the zipper of Victor’s jeans.

Victor groans, wanting to palm at Yuuri’s ass and hoist him into the air so that he could wrap his legs around him fully, so that he could feel the power of his legs around him and surrender to it. 

Yuuri pulls him impossibly closer, biting lightly on his bottom lip.

The flash of pain brings him down–  Victor gasps, putting a hand on Yuuri’s chest and pushing him away. Victor closes his eyes, not wanting to see his own embarrassment reflected in Yuuri’s eyes. He swallows, the sounds of their labored breathing loud in the small space. 

“What’s wrong?” Yuuri asks, his words slurred. 

“I’m sorry I–   _ fuck _ –  I’m fucked up, Yuuri.” The words spill out, slurred and ugly. “You have to know that.”

The English curse lays thick and heavy on his tongue. Yuuri stares at him with his deep brown eyes, clearer than before but still glassy from alcohol. Victor is happy they hadn’t turned the light on; Yuuri is beautiful in the moonlight that filters in through the small window. 

Yuuri nods, as if answering some unasked question. “We’re drunk. This–  I’m sorry.”

Victor doesn’t want Yuuri to shoulder the blame–  wants to tell him that it’s his fault and his ghosts that haunted their interactions–  

Yuuri keeps talking, almost hysterical now. “I’m–  I’m so sorry.”

He unlocks the door and slips out, leaving Victor alone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the awesome comments and kudos on the last chapter! It's so great to know people are enjoying this story so far. 
> 
> I didn't want to include the link right in the fic in case it threw off the atmosphere, but here is the music for Galina's free skate program: [Galina's free skate music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPAbx5kgCJo) . I wanted her to skate to something that was appropriate for her age, and something that Victor would have picked for her as opposed to Yakov who would have definitely done something classical that she couldn't relate to. 
> 
> Your comments (or screams of anguish at this cliffhanger) are always welcome and cherished!


	4. Chapter 4

A sliver of sunlight peeks through the window, nearly blinding Victor when his eyes crack open. He groans, his head pounding and stomach churning along with the usual aches and pains. His head rests in a pool of his own drool, one arm hanging off the narrow side since he hadn’t bothered pulling the sofa bed out the night before. He braces one hand against the floor, lifting his aching body into a sitting position. The clock radio reads 7:33 AM, blessedly early before his lunch shift at eleven. He runs a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath and standing. 

The room spins. He closes his eyes and waits for it to stop before stumbling towards the bathroom, splashing water over his sweaty and tear-stained face. He stares at himself in the mirror–  the dark circles under his eyes. He sighs, drying his face with the towel hanging limply next to the sink. Another thing that wants for washing. 

He pads his way over to Yuri’s room, surprised that he hasn’t started crying yet, but Yuri lies contentedly in his crib, grabbing for his own feet and attempting to put his toes in his mouth. He babbles, and Victor muses that it won’t be long before words start to come out along with the senseless rambling. He picks him up, carrying him over to the changing table.

Though Yuri’s soiled diaper is enough to nearly set him retching over the side of the table, he manages to get Yuri cleaned up and presentable and into his high chair without much fuss. He pops two aspirin while fixing his bottle, downing two glasses of water along with them once he realizes that his throat feels scorched raw. The kettle gurgles from the stove, though his stomach turns at the thought of coffee. 

He holds Yuri in his lap, angling the bottle towards him. Yuri reaches out, grabbing the bottle and pulling it towards his mouth himself. Victor raises his eyebrows, experimenting with loosening his grip and letting Yuri take the weight of the bottle. He seems unfazed and continues drinking happily, as if he had been doing it for years. 

Victor lowers his hand completely, holding Yuri secure but letting him feed himself. For weeks he had been researching how to start introducing holding a bottle to a nearly seven-month old, how to get him ready for it, and here Yuri had skipped all the way to step ten by himself. He sighs, relaxing and letting the quiet of the moment wash over him. 

He wonders if Maria will let him borrow her vacuum later. He had picked up the big pieces of the plate Anna had thrown at him when he came home two hours late, drunk and barely able to keep himself upright, but it wouldn’t take much for the tiny, sharper pieces to get ground up in the carpet. Yuri would be crawling in earnest soon–  and he’s sure baby-proofing the apartment doesn’t include having booby traps of glass shards for him to land on. 

He swallows back the lump in his throat. “My little Yura,” he says, smiling at the contented baby. “At least you didn’t see me like that.”

Somehow he had gotten himself to the metro before the last train, dragging his feet like all the other drunks, head nearly between his knees when he had finally found a seat. His phone screen swam in front of his eyes, the missed calls from Anna numbering in the double digits. The old woman had stayed with Yuri the whole night. 

He wonders if Anna had really aimed the plate at his head or had just wanted to scare him. He remembers distantly her whispered yelling, Yuri asleep in the next room, her Moscow accented Russian harsh as she threw insult after insult at him, telling him he didn’t deserve to be a father, that he was just another drunk– 

Yuri hiccups as he finishes the bottle. Victor sets the bottle on the table, carefully arranging a towel and Yuri over his shoulder while he pats his back. 

When he closes his eyes he sees the flashing lights of the club, Yuuri Katsuki’s body pressed against him so hard that scarcely any air could be found between them. 

“Do you forgive me, Yura?” 

The baby answers with a burp, and Victor snorts a laugh in spite of himself. He wonders if Yuri had cried when he hadn’t come home–  if he thought that he had left him. 

_ Do you think your mother would have forgiven me? _ He asks silently. 

He does manage to get the vacuum from Maria, her judgemental eyes the least he deserves when she sees the state he’s in at her door, two hours earlier than he’s supposed to drop off Yuri. She doesn’t ask any questions, handing him the vacuum over the threshold. 

He starts with getting the glass out of the carpet, setting Yuri back in his crib while he completes the task. After that he lets him roam freely, laying a blanket on the ground to crawl upon. Yuri plays with a stuffed cat, banging it against the furniture and the ground while Victor moves about the apartment, loading up the washing machine with his and Yuri’s clothes, taking out the wet ones to hang on the line. He disinfects the counters and other surfaces, finding sticky places he hadn’t noticed before. He’s scrubbing the sink with cleanser when his phone buzzes from its place on the charger, forgotten since he had collapsed on the sofa the night before. 

He removes his gloves and grabs it, seeing Mila’s name across the screen.

_ What happened last night? _

_ Vitya? _

_ Victor. _

_ Call me. _

Following the texts is a screenshot of an instagram post. He squints at it, zooming in to see that it’s from Phichit Chulanont’s instagram account. It’s a selfie, Phichit’s face in the lower corner and the rest of the picture dedicated to capturing the huge crowd from the club the night before. In the upper left he spots a dark head, extremely close to an ash blond one. He clenches his jaw.

Another text arrives. 

_ I’d know that strange-ass hair anywhere, Nikiforov. _

He groans, grabbing a fistful  of said hair and pulling. He exhales, typing out a hasty reply. 

_ Nothing happened. _

Her reply is almost instant.

_ That doesn’t look like nothing. _

_ You’re lucky it was only from the back. You’re still almost a celebrity.  _

Victor shakes his head.

_ I know. I’m sorry. _

_ Don’t apologize to me. I’m worried about you. Who was watching Yuri? _ _   
_

He types out the rest of the explanation to Mila, switching back to the picture and staring. He remembers how Yuuri had turned in his arms, pressing his back against Victor’s front, leaning back and exposing his neck– 

He types out a quick send-off to Mila, explaining that they’ll talk later. He scoops Yuri up from where he had wandered into the kitchen, tiny hands slapping on the linoleum. He laughs happily when Victor lifts him, and Victor feels thankful that at least one of them is happy. 

He straps Yuri in his carseat and brings him inside the bathroom while he showers, not trusting him to stay in his crib alone with the newfound strength he’s been showing. He gets ready quickly, thankful that he finds one more clean work shirt amongst the clothes still left in his bureau. He only has an afternoon shift at the restaurant today, and he’s never been so thankful to not have to go to the rink. 

It takes a bit of finesse that is almost beyond his hungover self to balance Yuri and his diaper bag on one shoulder and the vacuum in his other hand as walks the short distance to Maria’s apartment. She takes the vacuum back with a smile, cooing at Yuri and in a better mood than Victor had seen in weeks. 

“Do I really look that terrible?” he asks as she settles Yuri in a playpen with another baby. 

Maria smiles. “Oh yes. I know that look dearly. I’m sure you’re punishing yourself more than I could punish you.”

Victor is grateful for the young woman in that moment, and kisses Yuri goodbye, feeling a little lighter. 

He grabs a piroshki from his usual stand on his way to the restaurant, the heavy pastry settling his anxious stomach. By the time he punches in, he’s starting to feel somewhat human again. 

He finds it easy to put on his waiter persona, giving tourists friendly service along with their upscale pancake variations. He turns over two quick tables, and is picking up food from the kitchen for a third when one of the waitresses, a middle-aged woman named Vera, approaches him. 

“Some man is here asking for you, out front,” she says while stacking plates on her tray. 

“Who?”

She shrugs. “Some foreigner,” she says, already halfway back in the dining room. 

Victor’s brow furrows, but he loads up his own tray and follows her. 

Yuuri stands near the hostess station when Victor emerges from the kitchen, the tray of plates suddenly heavy on his shoulder. Yuuri nods at him, smiling halfway. Victor nods back, averting his eyes immediately and concentrating on not dropping the tray of plates he’s balancing. He delivers the food, smiling and fetching napkins for the French tourists at their request. He slips off to the side, seeking out Vera at the cash register. 

“I need to take my break now,” he says, hoping he has his best puppy-dog face on. “Would you cover my tables?”

Vera glances at Yuuri by the door, then back at Victor, snapping her gum. 

“Fifteen minutes,” she says, looking back at the register and punching a few buttons. 

“Thank you.”  He catches Yuuri’s eye, indicating for him to follow him with a wave of his hand. 

There’s no break room, but he leads Yuuri down a side corridor where stock is kept next to the walk-in freezer. He faces Yuuri, fidgeting with his hands until they settle on his hips. 

“So–”

“Victor–”

They both stop. Victor bites his lip, looking down. 

“I was going to wait for you at the rink, but they told me you didn’t have a class tonight,” Yuuri explains. 

Victor nods. “Did Mila tell you I was here? She always was easy with information.”

Yuuri blanches, looking green around his edges. “It was Yakov, actually.” He pauses. “If you don’t want me here I could–”

“No,” Victor interrupts. “I’m sorry. I seem unable to say the right thing to you, lately.”

Yuuri smiles, the expression not reaching his eyes. “Well, we haven’t known each other that long.”

Victor returns it. “I suppose you’re right.”

There’s a beat of silence. Victor struggles with English for the first time in years, ever since Elena had drilled him with homemade flashcards on the sidelines of the rink, telling him stories about his future international career. 

“Yuuri,” he starts. “I’m sorry I pushed myself on you last night.”

Yuuri blinks. “Pushed?”

“I wasn’t myself,” Victor continues, “We were both drunk. I–  I hope this doesn’t affect our friendship.”

Yuuri crosses his arms, guarded. Victor’s reminded of the first time he had seen him, one serious skater amongst a crowd of smiling faces. 

“I understand,” he says finally. “I’m sorry if I gave the impression that I was… pushing. When I drink I–”

Victor shakes his head. “No! This is on me. I take full responsibility.”

Yuuri looks down. “I see.”

Victor buries his fingers in his hair, pulling slightly. “ _ Dermo _ –  I’m. You don’t want to get involved with me, Yuuri. My life–  it’s too complicated. I make a much a much better friend than… any of that.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows furrow, but he nods after a moment. “I understand,” he says again quickly, avoiding Victor’s eyes. “There was a picture–  uh, that Phichit took. I told him to take it down.”

“I appreciate that.”

“I wouldn’t want anyone to think–  you know.”

Victor nods. “Yes.”

“So,” Yuuri says, “I’ll see you around the rink?”

“Yes,” Victor answers quickly. “Yes, of course. I won’t even be awkward. Promise.”

It’s a lame attempt at lightening the moment, and Yuuri smiles tightly, turning around to leave. Victor watches him, the way he carries himself so carefully, so unlike the Yuuri he had known the night before. 

Victor runs another hand through his hair, sighing and returning to work five minutes earlier than what was required. He ignores his coworkers’ knowing and pitying looks, finishing his shift and punching out without another word to anyone. 

 

* * *

 

It takes nearly two days for Victor to completely come out of the fog brought on his drunken endeavors and the slap in the face from Elena’s memory, the guilt and shame keeping him nauseous long after the hangover fades. He stands on the sidelines of the rink, helping his beginner students off the ice and accepting renewal papers and tuition payments from parents. He takes them with a smile, knowing that even after his novices were gone he would still have reliable work teaching his beginners. Despite his antics from the days before, parents seemed satisfied with his work and the way he taught their children, some even signing up for ballet lessons as well from his recommendation. 

Yuuri had not stayed past his usual training time since they had seen each other at the restaurant, exiting the ice and disappearing into the locker room as soon as Victor entered the rink each day. So much for remaining friends. Victor knows it’s the most he deserves. 

After the last student is gone and the rink rings with quiet, he slips into his street shoes and starts to slowly make his way towards the office to drop off the forms and tuition checks, and to bring the ballet applications to Lilia. Outside of the rink, there’s a long hallway that leads to where the gymnasts train and the cafeteria. On the way, there’s the dance studio. 

Victor hears the twinkling sounds of the probably bored rehearsal pianist before passing the long window. The sound reminds him that he should drop off the dance forms to Lilia before going to the office. Young dancers move in balletic and synchronized motions, their steps light and airy. Lilia stands by the mirror, arms crossed tightly as she regards them. 

He purses his lips.

Very often Victor finds himself thinking about what would have happened if he had turned his parental rights over to Lilia and Yakov, or if they had contested his custody of Yuri. He is young, after all, and without support in so many ways. He had been on his own since moving out of their house and into the skating dormitories at eighteen. There were no New Year’s celebrations at the Feltsman-Baranovskaya household once he was gone–  only skating and a place to sleep when he had gotten too drunk to make it to the metro. 

They fought every night. Victor had heard it even from the couch. Would Yuri have saved Yakov and Lilia’s marriage? Where would Victor have been then?

Those days seem a lifetime ago. 

“Vitya.”

He turns toward the gruff voice, pulled from his stupor.

“Hm?”

Yakov stands next to him, having just exited the dance studio by the looks of the swinging door.

“How are you?”

Victor shifts, always uncomfortable at Yakov’s attempts at small talk. 

“Alright. Just dropping off some tuition forms for my beginner students. Some are interested in starting ballet.”

Yakov nods. “Good. Any standouts?”

Victor laughs once. “They’re only five, Yakov.”

He raises his eyebrows. “So? You were six.”

Victor swallows, shaking his head. “I’ll let you know in a year then.”

Yakov sighs, his forehead settling into deep ridges. “Katsuki was looking for you the other day.” For some reason, he jerks his head toward the window. 

Victor glances in that direction, surprised to see the scores of ballerinas and Lilia gone, with only one lone Yuuri Katsuki at the barre with his leg up, torso stretched over it with grace. 

“He has potential. Jumps are shit. Had to start from the ground up.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Just because he has a unique landing technique doesn’t mean they’re shit.”

Yakov narrows his eyes. “They are if I say they are.”

“Whatever.” Victor flips his hair, looking for a way out.

Yakov shuffles his feet, an uncharacteristically fidgety move.

“How’s Yura?”

Ah. 

“Good.” Victor starts. “He has a tooth now. And he crawls. His hair is so blond and I hope it doesn’t get darker.”

Yakov’s stern face softens somewhat. Victor finds an opening.

“You can visit. Anytime.”

Yakov clears his throat, straightening.

“Well–  don’t keep him waiting too long, then. It’s getting late.”

He walks away without another word, his boots soundless against the floor. 

Victor sighs, turning back to the window to find Yuuri watching him through the glass. He blanches when he sees Victor has spotted him, looking like he had swallowed something unpleasant, and turns away to start stretching again. Victor squares his shoulders, remembers his mission, and shoulders his way through the door.

Music plays still, not from the piano in the corner but from the tinny speakers of an iPhone sitting on the floor and plugged into the lone outlet in the room. Something light and poppy drifts from it, the words in English. 

Yuuri stretches out the barre, one leg resting on it in an approximation of the camel spin position for which he is so well-known. Even his straight and balletic line is fluid, not unlike the way he had moved under the flashing lights a few nights ago– 

His bag slips from his shoulder, hitting the floor with a  _ thunk _ .

“Shit–” He staggers to lift it back up.

Yuuri’s head perks up, and their eyes meet. 

There’s a beat where Victor swears even Yuuri’s music has paused. He clears his throat. 

“Sorry,” he whispers, his voice coming out hoarse. 

Yuuri lowers his leg. “It’s ok.”

Victor sets his bag on the floor after failing to get it to stay on his shoulder yet again. “Ugh–  I just needed to talk to Lilia. Did she leave?”

Yuuri nods. “She went into her office. She said she’ll be back though.”

“Oh. I guess I’ll wait then. If you don’t mind?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Nope. Fine with me.”

Yuuri returns to stretching without giving Victor another glance. Victor shoves his hands into his pockets, looking up at the ceiling and down at his shoes, trying not to stare as Yuuri folds himself into various positions. His gaze is steely and determined, so unlike the nervous and guilty expressions from the restaurant earlier in the week. 

“I don’t know when she’ll be back,” he says while running through positions. 

“It’s ok. I’m used to waiting for her.”

Yuuri cocks his head to side, quizzical even as he examines his own position in the mirror.

“Do you know her well?”

Victor laughed. “Yes.  I mean, I lived with her and Yakov for a while when I was a teenager, is all.”

Yuuri straightens up, finally turning to give him his attention. “Really? What was it like?”

Victor shrugs. “Like how you’d expect living with a prima ballerina would be, I suppose… why?”

Yuuri turns away, another one of his blushes coloring his cheek. “Nothing–  I just. I’m having a lesson with her in a few minutes and–  well my old ballet teacher from home used to talk about her all the time.”

Victor smiles, relieved to see the Yuuri he had come to know starting to poke through the cool facade. 

“Can I give you some– tips? I think that’s the word? Like a hint?”

Yuuri laughs. “Yes, I think that’s the word you’re looking for. Or at least I hope it is.”

“Well, tip number one for dealing with Lilia Baranovskaya: Never tell her you’re her fan. She despises hero-worshippers.”

“Nice.”

Victor continues. “Number two, well, don’t be tense when you dance ballet just because it’s a classical style. She likes to see fluidity and dynamic movements, not static and unoriginal ones.”

Yuuri nods, coaxing him on.

“And three,” Victor cocks his head to the side. “She respects ice dancers more than she will ever respect figure skaters.”

Yuuri’s brow dips. “What do you mean?”

Victor shrugs. His answer is on the tip of his tongue, almost tamped down by the voices in his head shouting  _ what are you doing, asshole, leave this poor boy alone, you are a wreck. _

He doesn’t listen. 

“It would be easier if I could just show you.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows shoot up in shock. Victor flushes all the down to his neck, rubbing the back of it with the palm of his hand. 

“Victor–” Yuuri starts, gracelessly shuffling his feet. “You’re very confusing.”

Victor purses his lips before smiling. “I know. But I ask as a friend? One who is curious how someone who moves so gracefully dances?”

“As a friend,” Yuuri repeats, hands loose at his sides. 

“Purely platonic.”

Something classical comes up on Yuuri’s shuffle, something in three with lilting strings. 

Victor smiles. “Can you waltz?”

Yuuri huffs as if offended, but when Victor looks closely he’s smiling. 

“Can you?” Yuuri offers a hand. 

Victor takes it. It’s warm and slightly rough. Unexpected hazards of falling on the ice so much. 

“You can lead,” Yuuri says.

Victor swallows, feeling shaky despite Yuuri’s stabilizing hand on his upper arm. He steps forward to catch the beat, and Yuuri responds immediately. Soon they are swept up in the rhythm of the music, the Strauss waltz old and overplayed as a skating routine time and time again, but suddenly new under the bright lights of Lilia’s dance studio with Yuuri in his arms. 

It’s true, Yuuri dances with the same finesse as he skates. He doesn’t miss a beat Victor’s leading, his back a beautiful arch as if in a layback spin and not a ballroom dance position. 

“Are you a dancer too?” Victor asks, voice low as his spins Yuuri out. 

He smiles. “I was, before skating. It’s still important to me.”

Of course. Yuuri could dance just as beautifully to Strauss as he could to canned Russian club music, and it showed on the ice. 

Victor bites his lip, the thoughts of the night at the club seeping into the moment. Yuuri must feel it too, because they slow to a stop. They drop their arms until Yuuri’s hand rests on his forearm, their other hands barely connected at the fingers. 

“Yuuri, I–” He stops, looking down at his feet. “I’m sorry. I said it before but I am.”

“You did,” Yuuri confirms. It’s not a question, and there’s a strange look in his eyes. “You did say that.”

Looking at Yuuri’s lips now would be unfair; it would be lewd and tactless and downright mean after the display he had put on in the club those days before. 

Yuuri’s hand tightens on his arm. His breath hitches in his chest. 

“Victor–”

“Vitya,” comes a sharp voice behind them. 

Never had Victor despised his own diminutive more. 

He let’s out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, turning around to see Lilia standing in the doorway. Yuuri drops his hands, taking their pleasant heat with them. 

“Hi Lilia,” he says lamely.

“To what do I owe the visit?” She says, eyebrows nearly disappearing in her hairline. “You’ve neglected your ballet for months now.”

“Right.” Victor stoops down to rummage in his bag, pulling out the forms for dance lessons. “New students. Some are interested in ballet. I thought you could pass them on to the beginner instructor.”

She takes them, eyeing the first name on the top of the pile. “I see. Is there anything else?”

Victor bites his tongue, knowing that the display of indifference was for Yuuri’s benefit.  _ Don’t be like Victor, young one, he is outcasted and already gone from this world _ .

She’ll probably give him the lecture as soon as Victor was gone from the room. 

“If there’s nothing else, I have an appointment.” She turns her back. 

Yuuri eyes him over her shoulder, but Victor is already hoisting his bag onto his shoulder, his renewal forms clenched in his other hand, ready for the rink office. Yuuri is already in second position by the time he pushes through the swinging door and back out into the hallway.   
  


* * *

Victor doesn’t hear his phone buzz over the sound of his stereo, even with the volume turned down low. While Galina and Kostya both had their program music chosen and fully choreographed, the rest of his novices still needed music to go with their roughly outlined choreography and programs. He uses a morning off to run through several playlists Mila had recommended him while Yuri takes an afternoon nap before Victor drops him off at Maria’s. 

His dance with Yuuri haunts him as he listens to classical pieces and pop songs alike, the feeling of his hand firm in his and the way their legs had almost entangled in the way they had moved together. Yuuri hadn’t backed down from him, they seemed to only move closer to each other, like the way Yuuri had moved in at the last moment before Lilia’s voice had snapped them back to reality. 

He jumps when his phone buzzes next to him, displaying a notification for two missed calls from Maria and voicemail. It can’t be good, and nerves settle in his stomach as he lifts the phone to his ear. 

_ Victor, It’s Maria… I’m so sorry, but I can’t watch Yuri tonight.  _ She pauses to cough, a rough sound even over the phone.  _ I can’t even get over to your apartment to tell you. I hope I didn’t get Yuri sick. I should be better on Monday… call you then. _

He pockets the phone, moving at a clip to Yuri’s room, the baby still sleeping soundly even as Victor bends over his crib walls to feel his forehead. Victor deflates; there’s no sign of fever. Feeling only nominally relieved, he steps outside Yuri’s room, his phone already at his ear.

Mila picks up after the third ring. 

“Hello?”

“Mila,” he says, exhaling with relief, “Listen, Maria is sick, can you watch Yuri tonight? Just while I’m teaching, maybe three hours with the train trip and back–”

“I’m so sorry, Vitya–  I’ve got an exhibition at the Palace tonight–  I’m surprised you didn’t know about it–  it’s the end of the regional tour.”

He runs a hand over his face, feeling like he could pull the skin clean off. “I forgot. So no one is at the rink then?”

“Not that I know of–”

“Shit–  Shitshitshit.”

“Hold on, Vitya,” Mila speaks over him, “Just cancel your class tonight–  it’s only one night.”

“I already cancelled a class this week!” He all but yells into the receiver, remembering how the arena management had pulled him into their office his first day back to the rink after getting drunk and groping Katsuki Yuuri at the trendiest new gay bar in St. Petersburg–

It had been a clear warning. Cancel a class without 24 hours’ notice, no check. Cancel two classes without 24 hours’ notice, find a new rink to teach at, rapidly aging silver medal or not. His rent invoice sits open on the counter, depending on his check from the rink at the end of the week.

Mila is quiet when she responds, as if he had hit her. “I’m sorry. I have to go, we’re already leaving.”

She says goodbye, hanging up before he can respond. He resists the urge to throw the phone across the room. 

Anna is gone for the weekend, visiting family in Moscow and already not his biggest fan at present; it was why he had made the arrangements with Maria in the first place. If Mila had a show at the palace then so did Georgi and his other rink mates, and even Yakov would be there.

His finger hovers over Lilia’s name before he quickly puts that idea aside. 

He takes a deep breath, checking the time. He still has half an hour before he needs to be on the train to the arena. He flies around the apartment, digging out Yuri’s colder weather clothes from the bottom drawer of the bureau, praying to God that they still fit even with a couple months having past. He throws them all in Yuri’s diaper bag. He had planned on Yuri eating at Maria’s but he’ll have to find a way to do it at the rink, since he needed to sleep as much as possible now. He throws a jar of food into the bag along with a bottle of formula ready to go. 

He lines up the bag next to his skating bag, looking at the two bulky bags and deciding that he’ll just wrap his skates in a plastic bag and shove them in the diaper bag instead. He changes quickly into a track suit, nearly tripping over his own pant legs and grabbing his team Russia jacket for the first time in a while–  hoping it will dissuade anyone from commenting on the baby at his side. 

With everything ready, he finally parts the curtain to Yuri’s room, guilt coursing through him at the sight of him so peaceful, hands in loose fists over his head. 

“I’m so sorry, Yuratchka,” he says as he lifts him from the crib. “We’re going to take a trip, though. Should be fun!”

Yuri looks at him grumpily, and Victor would swear that he had one eyebrow raised at him, as if to say  _ Are you kidding me, asshole? _

“I’m afraid not, kitten, but I promise you can sleep as much as you want.”

Yuri’s still groggy as he straps him into the stroller, stretching and wiggling around enough to make it difficult. Once he’s finally secure, Victor makes one more check around the apartment, to be sure he’s not forgetting anything, before slinging his bag over his shoulder and backing out of the apartment. 

He remembers the stairs about halfway down the hallway, groaning and unstrapping Yuri to carry him in one arm and the stroller in the other as they make their way down multiple flights. Yuri fidgets, meaning he has to drop the stroller and readjust more than he would like to before they’re finally out in the humid air. 

It’s a hot day, and Victor’s shirt sticks to his back with the heavy jacket over it that he hadn’t thought to remove. He gets Yuri situated again and pushes the stroller at a clip to get to the metro, time ticking away. Tired faces surround him as commuters go in the opposite direction back to the apartment blocks. 

He jumps in line for the turnstiles once he’s inside the station, a kind woman in front of him helping him manage to get through. The escalator ride down isn’t bad once he’s situated, the station at enough of a lull that their aren’t too many people trying to run down the moving stairs to catch a train. He uses the near three minutes to catch his breath, along with the other stone-faced travelers near him. He checks on Yuri, making sure he’s secure in his seat. 

The train is crowded by the time he gets through the door, and he finds somewhere to lean as it lurches to a start. Yuri fusses a bit after two stops, grimacing at the flurry of activity around him and looking none too happy about it. Victor stoops down, handing Yuri his locked phone to play with in an act of pure desperation. He swears he sees a mother with a fidgety toddler down the row nod at him in sympathy. Victor feels grateful that Mila convinced him to get the good case, especially when it ends up right in Yuri’s mouth, like a teething ring. 

Victor sighs, wondering if it’ll scar Yuri for life if the phone vibrates while it’s in his mouth when he finally hears his stop announced overhead. He gathers up his things, retrieving his phone from a mad Yuri as the doors open and other travelers rush, creating the characteristic jam. 

Fighting his way out of this station proves to be harder that getting in the last one as the city center is busy with commuters getting on trains going home. He squeezes through the masses of people, finally getting to the escalators after five minutes, checking his phone nervously for the time on the way up. 

He makes it to the rink with only a few minutes to spare, keying in through the side door to avoid stares from the lobby staff. He had brought Yuri outside before of course, but never to the rink.  

He stoops down in the back corridor, fishing out Yuri’s warm clothes from the diaper bag. Yuri protests to being forced into layers after the sticky hot of the outside.

“Please work with me here, Yura, you’ll thank me in a minute.”

He manages to get his arms through the sweater and coat, along with a blanket over his legs for extra warmth. He smooths down his own hair and straightens his clothes before walking in, not wanting to look like he had run there. 

His shoulders sag when he enters the rink; he had hoped with the gala across the way that the rink would be deserted, but a few of Yakov’s international students have obviously opted to stay behind, including Yuuri and Phichit.

The door slams shut behind him, drawing eyes toward him. Yuuri looks at him, quickly averting his eyes and returning to whatever he had been doing. Phichit waves enthusiastically, however. 

“Hi Victor!” Phichit skates over to the barrier, leaning over to take a look at Yuri. “Who do you have here?”

Victor opens his mouth, stuttering as other skaters drift over to see what Phichit is looking at. 

He smiles, remembering himself. “This is Yuri.”

They all coo over him, making baby talk in a multitude of languages. None of them ask where he came from, or who he belongs to, thankfully. 

Phichit, who had already exited the rink and is stooped down in front of Yuri with a ridiculously wide smile, says, “You have to know that it’s my strict code of ethics that’s keeping me from taking a selfie with this child. Will Yuri be joining us here tonight?” he asks excitedly. Yuri smiles at him, reaching out with a tiny hand. 

Victor laughs. “Yes. My–  my babysitter got sick, so I’ll watch him while I teach. He needs to eat now–  so if you would excuse me–”

“But you can’t watch him while you teach! That’s impossible,” Phichit says as the other skaters drift away, clearly having their fill of baby for the evening, “Let me! I have two little brothers, so lots of baby experience, I swear!”

Victor hesitates, biting his lip. Phichit is so kind and sincere, and he would have a time of it teaching and watching Yuri at the same time– 

“Yuuri and I both will watch him, and we’ll stay right here where you can keep an eye out too, right Yuuri?”

Victor hadn’t noticed Yuuri drifting over until Phichit yelled over his shoulder at him. Yuuri freezes, locking eyes with Victor. 

“Uhh–”

“You don’t have to–” Victor rushes to say. 

“But we will, won’t we, Yuuri?” Phichit looks pointedly at Yuuri. 

Yuuri clears his throat. “I would be glad to help, though I don’t know as much as Phichit.”

Victor stares at Yuuri. “You’re sure?”

Yuuri smiles. Victor’s chest tightens. 

“Yes. Anything for a fellow Yuri.”

Victor smiles back, his nerves loosening slightly from the berating they had taken in the last hour. Before he even looks away, Phichit is taking the diaper bag from his shoulder, almost causing him to lose his balance. 

“Come on, let’s get little Yuri fed.”

It seems like only a minute later that Victor watches in amazement from the rink while his students swirl about him as Yuuri sits on a bench, feeding a grateful Yuri his late afternoon bottle. He holds him like a professional, supporting Yuri’s head but letting him hold the bottle at the same time. 

“Victor Ivanovich!” Galina calls, skating circles around him until he notices her.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, tearing his eyes away from the sight. “Show me that jump again.” 

Galina does the jump again, the salchow almost effortless for her at this point. She drifts back over. 

“How was that?” she asks. 

“Perfect,” he says quickly. “Don't polish shiny objects.”

She ignores his jab. “Who’s baby is that?”

“What?” Victor asks, realizing he had been watching Yuuri and Yuri again. “Oh. He’s–  he’s mine.”

The words feel weird leaving his mouth, but soon it’s drowned out by Galina’s squealing. 

“Aww!! I didn’t know you had a baby! Where’s your wife?”

He snaps to attention again, stomach dropping. “So nosy! You better go practice spins with the rest of the group. Help Roza with her traveling on her sit spin.”

Galina rolls her eyes, but skates away. He calls Kostya over, wanting to see the boy’s choreography that had gone a little neglected from practicing jumps. 

“Everything ok over here?” he asks Phichit and Yuuri after Kostya has finished and is back practicing with the group.

Yuuri looks up, his expression more relaxed and open than Victor had ever seen it. “I think so.”

Phichit looks grumpy beside him. “He cried when I tried to pick him up. Of course he likes Yuuri more.”

Yuuri rolls his eyes before turning back to the baby in his arms. “He’s good at holding the bottle by himself.”

“Yes, that’s one of his new tricks. Can’t even walk yet and he’s already trying to control everything.”

Yuuri laughs. “I should be glad he isn’t trying to get to you out onto the rink. He watches you like a hawk.”

“He’s probably wondering about all this, and when he will get a turn on the ice.”

“It’s only natural he would want to go to his father, right?” Yuuri says, looking up at Victor.

Victor freezes, saved only when he hears Galina calling for him. 

“Sorry, be back soon!”

He throws himself back into teaching, berating himself for being so foolish. Of course someone like Yuuri would think he was Yuri’s father. What other explanation would there be for turning up at the rink with a baby? And how would he correct him?

_ No, I’m not Yuri’s father, just the person that cares for him 24/7. _

He watches Phichit play peek-a-boo while Yuri sits up on Yuuri’s lap, his enjoyment heard all over the rink in the high pitched sounds he makes every time Phichit pops up from behind his own hands. His eyes are drawn to Yuuri again and again–  to his easy smile and laugh at Yuri’s antics. 

Finally, parents begin to show up, looking tired as they beckon their children off of the rink. Victor waves goodbye to each of them, closing and locking the rink gate behind him before walking over to the bench and sitting down next to Yuuri. 

Yuri sleeps comfortably in the stroller, happily bundled and warm in his multiple layers. Yuuri rocks it back and forth with his foot, keeping it in constant motion. Victor leans his head back, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment. 

“Where’s Phichit?” He asks.

“I told him to go back to the dorms,” Yuuri answers. “I know he doesn’t seem like it, but he’s really exhausted. Yakov yelled at him today about being distracted while training.”

Victor hisses through his teeth. “Ah. I know that feeling well.”

“I didn’t particularly like being a witness to it.”

Victor nods, understanding. He had been on the receiving end of more than one of Yakov’s rants. 

“How about your lesson with Lilia? Did she behave?"

Yuuri cracks a smile. "She appreciated my technique. Thank you for the advice."

"Oh, of course. How are you enjoying the program though? So far?” He asks, liking the sound of Yuuri’s voice and wanting to hear more. 

Yuuri pauses before answering. “I’m very grateful for the opportunity. Things are different here–  I’m used to having my own coach in Detroit, so the group classes are a little hard to get used to. My coach said I needed the change to up my level.”

Victor opens his eyes, turning to look at him. “Detroit? Oh right you said that the other day.”

Yuuri nods. “I’ve been there for two years. I left Japan after I made it to my first Nationals.”

“So that’s why your English is so much better than mine,” Victor jokes.

Yuuri shakes his head. “I doubt it. And I’m still not as good as Phichit. He’s got all the slang down.”

“I’ll teach you Russian slang. You’ll be a hit at the bar.”

Yuuri laughs, and Victor finds himself enchanted by the sound again. They settle back into a comfortable silence, and the seconds tick away like water falling through a sieve. Yuuri continues to rock the stroller back and forth.

“Thank you, again,” Victor says, gesturing towards Yuri. “You were both  wonderful with him. Do you have younger siblings?”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Only one older sister. My parents own an Inn, though. Sometimes the guests would pay me to watch their children while they were in the onsen.”

“Onsen?”

“Sort of like a spa, only outside, with hot springs,” Yuuri explains. “My parents own the last onsen resort in Hasetsu.”

Victor detects a modicum of pride in Yuuri’s voice. “Is that where you’re from?”

“Yes. I haven’t been there since moving to Detroit, though.”

“Do you miss it?”

Yuuri shrugs. “Some days. Like now, the cherry blossoms would be in bloom… What about you? Are you from St. Petersburg?”

Victor nods, bending down to begin untying his skates. “Yes, Yura and I have only ever known St. Petersburg. Can’t get homesick if you never leave home, I suppose.”

“Yuri,” Yuuri whispers, watching him in the stroller. “He’s– he’s wonderful.”

“He’s not mine,” Victor says. “If that’s what you’re wondering. There’s no wife waiting for me at home.”

Yuuri deflates, sighing. “Oh–  I did wonder. Just a bit.”

Victor swallows. Yuuri doesn’t ask for more information, but Victor can’t help but offer it. “He’s–  did you know Elena Orlova?”

Yuuri nods. “The Olympic Bronze medalist at Sochi? Of course I do. She–” He stops, biting his lip.

“She was a friend of mine. She died in a car accident last year.”

Just like that, the words are out. They sound like he’s speaking them from a different room, cold and echoing and without feeling.

Yuuri leans over to catch his eye. “I’m sorry. Not that you have Yuri–  but I am sorry that happened.”

Victor nods. “Thank you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri fusses with his skate, fixing the already perfectly positioned blade guard. “I was getting ready for Nationals when I heard about her accident. Japan loved her–  it was like losing one of our own.”

Victor nods, remembering the scores of international fans that had swarmed Elena after her bronze medal win in the Sochi Olympics. He had hung back then, still overwhelmed by how untouchable she seemed. 

“But it’s nothing like losing a friend.”

Victor’s chest tightens at Yuuri’s words, but he doesn’t want to cry. He doesn’t want to explain anything else, even though he knows he could tell Yuuri anything without judgement. He looks up at the rink, the way the ice shines in the bright lights, weaving swirling patterns in the dust molecules in the air. 

“Will you skate for me, Yuuri?”

Yuuri starts next to him, his foot freezing from where it had been rocking Yuri’s stroller.

“Oh,” he stutters, “I don’t know–”

“If you’re too tired–” Victor gestures at the sleeping baby in the stroller. “Yura understands. He’s never seen your videos. He doesn’t know the difference. But–” 

He stops, and Yuuri watches him, eyes soft. 

“I’ve seen your videos. And now that I know you, I wish you would skate for me, Yuuri,” Victor finishes, his face heating as he lets the words go, their meaning curling in the air. 

Yuuri swallows, and Victor follows the motion of his throat with his eyes. 

“Ok,” he says. Then he laughs, a tense exhalation that breaks the moment. “I’ve probably wrecked my feet from staying in my skates so long, anyway.”

“Yes!” Victor punches the air with evident delight. He leaps up to unlock the rink gate. “Go, go!  _ Davai! _ ”

Yuuri laughs at his encouragement, getting up and skating out to the center of the rink. 

“I don’t have music!” he calls. 

“Then make some yourself!” Victor calls back. 

Even from a distance he can see Yuuri rolls his eyes at the corniness of the line. After a few moments drifting around, he finally finds a good starting place, digging in a toe pick and freezing in his starting pose. 

Victor leans against the barrier, resting his chin in his hands. 

Yuuri moves, undoing himself slowly from the pose. Victor recalls the  [ music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GsVcoceqJMo) from Yuuri’s last free program, dramatic and full of sharp movements. Yuuri recreates it, movements sharp one moment and then languid and smooth the next. His technical elements flow freely from the steps, each spin like a stroke of the bow against the strings.

Commentators had been lukewarm about this program, citing that the music was too difficult to understand, the interpretation too deep. Victor had disagreed with them then, but now he knows they were wrong entirely. Admittedly the choreography could use some work, but Yuuri makes up for it in the way he  _ dances _ on the ice, free from the daily obligations of jumps and spins and competing with the other skaters for Yakov’s attention. His blades only whisper even though the edges cut deep, figures flawless and so entirely  _ Yuuri.  _

Yuuri flies into a layback spin, his back bent into an elegant arch, and Victor’s heart stutters. His free leg flies out, transitioning seamlessly into a slow step sequence beautiful in its spontaneity, his arms sweeping through the air. 

Victor’s toes curl inside his shoes. He suddenly wishes he hadn't removed his skates. He wants to join Yuuri, to skate around him and admire him up close. He wants to be near him and feel his heart near his own, a thought that makes him grip the rink barrier harder.

Yuuri finishes with one knee on the ice, his head bent forward in a pose of quiet pensivity. 

Victor claps hard, his gloved hands only capable of muffled noises. Yuuri looks up, unfreezing from the pose and standing to offer a small bow before skating back to Victor. 

Yuuri’s eyes shine when he’s close.

“Did you like it?” He asks, smiling.

Victor scoffs. “Like? How could you apply such a silly word to something so sublime–  so completely  _ amazing–” _

Yuuri laughs, cutting him off. “I touched down on both of my quads, Victor.”

“And?” He retorts, “You’re tired. But I could hear the music, Yuuri. Every bit of it.”

“Well,” Yuuri says, shyly rubbing the back of his neck. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I hope it’s not the last time I see you skate.”

Yuuri blushes, but before he can reply there’s a rustling behind them, followed by a small whine.

Victor stoops down, check on Yuri who’s just waking up, rubbing his eyes.

“I should get this one home,” Victor says. “He’s going to keep me up all night now, I hope you realize.”

“Can’t be any worse that Phichit’s snoring,” Yuuri says. “I haven’t slept through the night since we moved in together in Detroit.”

Victor laughs. “I find that hard to believe.”

Yuuri exits the rink, wiping snow from his blades before replacing his blade guards. “Believe it. Good night, Victor.”

Victor’s own goodnight is on the tip of his tongue when he stops, at war with himself. Yuuri walks toward the locker room, his chance slipping away with each minute. 

He breaks through. 

“Well,” he calls, a little louder to make up for their distance. “If Phichit snores tonight, you could text me. We’ll both be up together, after all.”

Yuuri turns around, his expression more serious than the simple request should make him. Under normal circumstances.

“Just friendly conversation,” Victor clarifies. “Only if you want.”

Yuuri comes back, fishing out his phone from his Team Japan jacket and offering it to Victor. “Put your number in.”

Victor’s heart soars as he enters his name into Yuuri’s contacts and hands his phone back to him. 

“I’ll text you after, so you have mine,” Yuuri stutters slightly on the last word, elongating the vowel. 

Victor nods. “I look forward to it.”

Yuuri smiles. “Goodnight, Victor. Goodnight Yuri!”

Yuri laughs and smiles at his new friend, and the sight nearly sets Victor aflame. 

He manages to get Yuuri out of his winter wear and out of the rink with far less trouble this time, his time constraints considerably more generous now. By the time he’s on the metro, twilight is only just setting in, the summer days long and hot as June moves into July. He struggles to keep his eyes open on the nearly empty train as it rocks back and forth.

His phone buzzes in his pocket two stops before his. He reaches for it, smiling at the international number flashing across the screen. 

 

_ It’s Yuuri.  _

_ I hope I’m not bothering you but _

_ Phichit’s snoring has begun. _

 

Victor smiles, sitting back in his seat. After a quick google search on how to switch his keyboard to Latin characters, he types a hasty response.

 

_ No, of course you’re not bothering me. _

_ Yura misses you already _

_ He told me himself. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yuuri's old free program in this chapter is the fourth movement of Shostakovich's 8th String Quartet. All Shostakovich's string quartets are awesome, but this one in particular is my favorite. I'm waiting patiently for a real life figure skater to discover it and choreograph a routine for it. Find the recording of the whole thing [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-0nKJoZY64A) .
> 
> Please come scream at me about yuri on ice on my tumblr! [Destielpasta](destielpasta.tumblr.com)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! I always love to hear what you think.


	5. Chapter 5

_ I’m coming over. _

Victor wrinkles his nose at Mila’s text, his phone in one hand while the other rummages through dirty dish water for the rest of Yuri’s bottles. He sighs, setting it down on the counter, needing both hands to use the bottle brush. Yuri sits in his high chair, babbling to himself as he gums a few cheerios. 

“Ah, yes. I concur,” Victor says stoically, answering Yuri’s gibberish. He had read that it helps early brain development to interact with babies as if they were speaking a recognizable language. 

“AHHHhhh bababa!”

He whips around dramatically, making a pretend-shocked face. “You’re kidding me, Yuratchka!”

He deposits the last bottle on the drying rack, smiling as Yuri laughs at his antics. His phone buzzes again; he peers over at it casually. 

_ Here _ , it reads. 

Mere seconds later, there’s a knock at the door. 

“Vitya?”

He grabs a dish towel, drying his hands as he heads over to answer the door. Mila stands over the threshold, two cups of take-away coffee in her hands. 

“I brought you coffee,” she says, thrusting the cup at him with a forced smile. 

Victor takes it, smirking at her forced cheerfulness. He steps aside, beckoning her inside without a word.

“Are you ever going to take Yura out on your days off… or do you prefer to stay cooped up in here?” she asks, depositing her sweater over the chair and sitting down on the couch. 

“Thank you for your advice, Lilia,” he says, taking the chair. 

Mila grimaces mid-sip. “Oh, that’s cold. But accurate.”

He raises his eyebrows. “If the severe top-knot fits.”

She nearly snorts her coffee at that. “I only was going to say that maybe we could go shopping. Just around to look!” she adds quickly as Victor moves to show her his empty wallet and young child with expensive needs. “I would treat for lunch. I just got paid for the gala! Cheap local gig, but still.”

Victor takes a sip of his own coffee. It’s a bit weak. 

“Hmmm.”

Mila pouts. “Come on Viiiiitya, this is my way of paying you back for leaving you in a lurch the other day, yeah?”

There it is, Victor thinks. Nothing motivates Mila like guilt. 

He smiles, shaking his head. “That didn’t turn out so badly. You don’t owe me for it.” He blushes slightly from the memory of watching Yuuri with  _ his  _ Yuri. 

She looks like she’s about to comment on that, but then thinks the better of it. “Well… then do it for me. I need a day away from the rink. And Yura could use some fresh air. Look at him, he’s starting to babble to himself from sheer insanity!” She gestures grandly at Yuri, who is currently involved in trying to insert his entire fist in his mouth and continue talking while doing it. 

Victor laughs, nearly doubling over in the chair. “Alright, alright, you got me. Watch Yura while I make myself presentable.”

Within an hour, they’re out in the sunshine-warmed air, Yuri sporting his best summer fashions and Victor in a blue button-down shirt that isn’t restaurant issued or made of lycra, for once. Mila foots the bill for a taxi to Nevsky Prospect and Victor forgoes the stroller, wrapping Yuri in a sling and carrying him close like he prefers, while also keeping his hands relatively free. 

They walk a few laps around the mall at the city center, then take to the outdoor shops on Nevsky. Yuri is comfortable in his sling, reaching his little arms out at the racks of clothes they pass and burying his head against Victor’s shoulder when the crowds get too overwhelming. He and Mila take turns carrying the diaper bag, just enjoying the rare dry and warm day in St. Petersburg. 

“You were right about going out,” he says as they wait to be seated at a restaurant, feeling more energetic than he has in weeks.

“What was that?” Mila says, feigning surprise and reaching for her phone. “I need to get this on film–”

“Alright, alright.” He shakes his head as the server leads them to a table. He undoes the sling and plops Yuri down in the highchair provided by the hostess, his back thankful for the rest. 

“Easy on the pirozhki, Yuratchka,” Mila teases, tickling Yuri’s chin. “You’re going to make old Vitya here throw out his back.”

“Who are you calling old?”

They banter back and forth, and Victor is sure that their stone-faced waitress must think that they are a couple with the baby between them. Yuri’s yellow-blonde hair could easily match with his platinum. They aren’t far from the rink, and they used to be a threesome here, him, Elena, and Mila–  grabbing a snack when they could get away from Yakov’s Soviet-Era nutritionist. Mila would flirt with the wait-staff and Elena would roll her eyes behind the menu. 

Mila mutters something about the quality of one of the soup dishes on the menu while the print swims in front of Victor’s eyes, almost unreadable. He tries to imagine Elena’s face again, finding it harder and harder to bring it up in his mind’s eye. His thoughts keep flicking to a more recent memory. Yuuri spins behind his eyes, his back bent in a beautiful arch.

“Hellooooo Vitya? Victor Nikiforov! Are you in there?”

Mila snaps her fingers in front of his face. He jumps. 

“Sorry–  What did you say?”

“What are you daydreaming about?”

Victor blinks a few times, clearing his vision. “Nothing, nothing.” 

“Seemed like something, Vit’enka.”

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not!” She throws up her hands. “I just don’t want you to keep it all bottled up. It’s no good for you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, turning to rummage through the diaper bag for some cheerios to occupy Yuri’s grabbing hands. His phone buzzes in his pocket. He digs it out while depositing the cheerios on Yuri’s tray, the other Yuuri’s name flashing across the screen.

“It’s not that,” he says, tossing the phone on the table and running a hand through his hair, remembering Mila’s statement.“It’s just… ahh.”

At that moment the waitress returns to take their orders, and Victor is saved from having to elaborate while Mila orders them both bowls of soup. He swipes at his phone, revealing Yuuri’s message. 

_ Yakov is in rare form today. _

_ He made half the group take off their skates to run laps around the rink. _

He types out a quick answer. 

_ He made me do that all the time in juniors.  _

_ Were you spared? _

_ Yes. Only because I nailed my quad salchow today.  _

_ Yay!  _ :D

Victor looks up, grinning, and Mila faces him with a smug expression.

“What?” He says.

“This dreamy disposition wouldn’t have anything to do with one Yuuri Katsuki, would it?” Mila asks.

Victor tenses, setting his phone aside, screenside down. “Who told you that?”

“Aha!” Mila says, “You just did. And I’m the one who showed you the picture, remember?”

He runs another frustrated hand through his hair, pulling slightly. “I thought Yuuri got Phichit to take that picture down.”

“Easy– he did,” Mila said, frowning slightly. “Don’t worry, just because I recognized you doesn’t mean the federation did.”

“What does the federation have to do with me?” he snaps. 

“Victor, never mind, forget I said that,” she whines, the conversation obviously not going the way she had wanted. “I don’t want to talk about the federation. I want to know if you’re ok and if this is a happy thing, for once.”

“Yes. I’m ok.” He skillfully ignores the second half of her question. “Can we talk about something else?”

She raises an eyebrow, not humoring him with an answer. 

He sighs, shoulders dropping. “I was hurting, that night. I had to send my students home from class–  I ended up at that new bar down the road from the rink. The one in the basement of the jewelry store. Yuuri and I danced. That’s all.”

She raises her eyebrow even higher, the line threatening to disappear into her red hair. 

“Ok we kissed. But that was  _ it _ , Mila. And it was a mistake. We agreed to just be friends.”

Mila’s face splits into a smile. “How was that a mistake? He seems like a sweetheart!”

“Ludmila…”

She makes a disgusted face at her given name. “What? So you danced with a pretty boy at a gay bar and got a kiss out of it too, forgive me if I don’t pity you.”

“He’s leaving in three weeks. And it was irresponsible.”

“Vitya,” she says. “You’re twenty-one years old, you’re allowed a few irresponsibilities.”

Victor rests his chin in his hand, looking at Yuri. “Tell that to Yura. He was stuck with Anna all night.”

Mila waves her hand. “He’ll be fine. You need to have some time to yourself anyway to be a better parent to him.”

“Alright Andrey Malakhov–”

“I’m  _ serious _ . But we can talk about Katsuki later. And we  _ will _ . But what do you mean, you were hurting?”

Victor sighs again. “The pain was worse than usual, is all.”

“Vitya…”

“It was nothing. I felt better as soon as I cancelled my class, and that’s why I felt like shit after. I gave up a night of work for nothing.”

“Have you been back to the doctor?”

“Not since March.”

“Why not?”

“There’s nothing they can do.”

“What about next season?”

Victor’s throat tenses, and an angry retort is at the tip of his tongue before he stops himself. He sits back in his seat, dragging a finger through the condensation on the table from his water glass. 

“I don’t think there’s going to be a next season, Mila. Not for me.”

Mila sits back in her seat too, deflated slightly. At that moment their waitress arrives again with their food. Neither of them move to touch the steaming bowls in front of them. 

“Your disappointment can’t compare to mine,” Victor says, spite worming its way into his voice. 

She looks up, eyebrows knitting together. “Disappointment? Victor, I’m not disappointed in you. I’m sad for you.”

He flinches, stirring his soup. “Somehow, that’s worse.”

She reaches out, taking his hand across the table. “I’m here. I support you in whatever you decide. You know that, right?”

He squeezes back. “I do.”

“Good.”

He swallows, guilt worming up his spine. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re allowed to be frustrated.”

“I shouldn’t take it out on you, though.”

Mila draws her hand back, smirking. “Well, can’t argue with that.”

He rolls his eyes, mirroring her smirk. “I take it all back. Our friendship is over.”

“Good, you pay for lunch then.”

They pass the rest of the meal talking about lighter topics, but Victor sits a little taller, the weight finally off of his chest. He had decided to retire months ago, alone on an exam table with a doctor poking and prodding at his still-bruised hip, but to everyone else, he was only taking the rest of the season off to recover from the death of a friend.

After lunch, and a bottle for Yuri, they head back out to catch the metro back home. Mila scrolls through her phone, eyes down, and Victor takes a moment to check his own. Two texts from Yuuri pop up on his screen. 

_ It was a one in a million chance, really.  _

_ How are you? _

It takes Victor a minute to remember that Yuuri is talking about his quad salchow success. He types out a reply, switching back to the latin alphabet.

_ That one is tricky. It took me a qhile to get it somewhat consistent.  _

_ *while _

It only takes a moment for the typing bubble to pop back up. 

_ Your jumps are so smooth, though. I’m nowhere near that. _

Victor purses his lips. He’s coming to realize that Yuuri can be a bit obtuse when it comes to his self-confidence, his internal monologue sometimes hurting others in the process, even if that isn’t his intention.

Like clockwork, the bubble returns. 

_ I’m sorry.  _

_ … _

_ I didn’t mean to bring that up.  _

Victor smiles, bouncing Yuri on his lap a bit when he starts to fuss, typing with one thumb. 

_ No harm done.  _

_ I may not be competing but I still have the best jumping technique at the rink.  _ :P

It’s a game he and Elena used to play when they were teenagers, walking around and declaring themselves the  _ very best _ at something, only to outshine the other at the earliest chance. Once Victor had crossed into double jumps, Elena just had to nail her first triple. Victor landed his first quad, and Elena– 

His phone buzzes again, jarring him out of the daydream. 

_ I would take that as a challenge _

_ But I’m afraid my feet are too sore to tackle it for today. _

Victor almost winces at the thought of his own feet during heavy training, the way the blisters would open up and callous over constantly, bleeding through his socks and staining the inside of his skates. 

_ Take a break. _

_ There’s always tomorrow. _

The reply is almost instant. 

_ Are you teaching tomorrow? _

Victor smiles, typing out a quick affirmative that he would be there later for his novices. He looks up, the grin still stupidly stuck to his face, to see Mila eyeing him. 

“What?”

She looks away, shrugging. “Nothing. I don’t want to be yelled at again.”

“Mila…”

She sighs, he smile turning more sincere. “I don’t mean to get all heavy on the train, but Elena would want you to be happy. You don’t have to feel guilty every time you feel something even close to good.”

Something rises in Victor’s throat, that almost uncontrollable need to lash out at anyone who says Elena’s name, who tries to speak for her. He shoves it down though, taking a deep breath. 

“I know.”

She fumbles with her phone, obviously trying to make it look like she wasn’t reacting to his answer. “Can I put this picture on Instagram? It’s too cute and we look good for once.”

Victor leans over to look, brow furrowing. He smiles when he sees their goofy smiling faces mashed into the front facing camera, Yuri’s laughing face the center of the shot in his high chair from the restaurant. She had taken it after their bowls of soup were nearly empty and Yuri had a few cheerios clutched in his fists. Mila already has it queued up in an instagram post, a warm filter placed over them that gives them more color than is strictly natural.

“Have you ever posted a picture with you and Yuri before?” Mila asks. 

He shakes his head. At first he had kept a social media silence for Elena’s sake, not wanting to plaster the internet with her orphaned son as soon as her funeral was over. Then it had been for the federation, not wanting them to nose around in his life while he waited for test results and physical therapy to give him good news. Weeks became months, and very few people found out he was the one caring for Yuri.

After his appointment with his doctor in March, what did it really matter?

“Go ahead. It’s cute.” He says, attempting to sound cavalier. 

Mila’s finger hovers over the post button. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Yuri fusses a bit in his sling and Victor adjusts him until he’s comfortable. When he’s done, Mila has her phone away, looking at him. 

“Yuuri Katsuki already liked it.”

He scoffs, the blush creeping up his neck, his own body betraying him. 

“He’s a big fan of Yura.”

“I’m sure.”

She clicks her tongue. “Still two more weeks of summer camp.”

“Mila…” He starts, rubbing a temple with the hand not supporting Yuri. “How’s that triple axel coming?”

She swats him on the thigh. “Don’t change the subject.” She looks down, hiding a smile. “But good.”

He feels almost guilty for changing the subject for selfish reasons, but he does feel genuine affection for his friend as she gushes about her rate of success and how she’s planning to try it out at her first Grand Prix event.

She chats about it all the way to their stop, helping Victor by carrying the diaper bag while he holds Yuuri close amongst the mad press of bodies against the train door. As soon as their feet hit the platform, he realizes his mistake. 

“Fuck,” he says, immediately covering Yuri’s ears from his own explicitness.

“What?” Mila says, already making her way to the escalator. 

“I have to get my check at the rink.” He digs his fingers into his forehead. “I was supposed to stop there while we were shopping.” 

“Get it tomorrow, that’s another twenty minutes back in the other direction.”

“I can’t,” he says, fishing his phone from his pocket to check the time. The rink would be closed in forty-five minutes. “I’ve got to get it in the bank in the morning for my rent check to go through.”

Mila taps him on the shoulder. “Hand him over.”

He grins, the nerves pulling at his stomach loosening slightly. “Mila, my beautiful friend, my confidant, how can I ever repay you–”

“Yeah, yeah, just give me the kitten, you’ll get there faster if you don’t have him strapped to your front. I’ll watch him until you get home. It’s not like I have anything better to do.”

There’s a moment of confusion as Victor gives Mila a crash course in how to use the sling, commuters and tourists swirling around them as they stand in the middle of the platform. He thanks Mila again, skipping off in the opposite direction at a clip. 

He stands throughout the train ride this time, clinging to the metal pole and quickly texting the rink manager asking to leave his check in his locker if he leaves before Victor arrives. The train to the city center is empty save for tourists and early night-life seekers, their glitzy club-wear and heavily applied make-up strange looking in the bright June sunlight.  He waits by the door as soon as the stop before his is announced, anxiously shifting his weight from foot to foot. 

He exits the train as soon as the door opens, throwing himself back into the crowds. The rink looms in front of him, the lights dimming before his very eyes as he approaches. He digs through his pocket for his own key, knowing that after 8 o’clock they lock the front doors, and unlocks the side door that connects to the locker rooms. He pushes into the men’s locker room, finding his check envelope discreetly tucked into the seam between his locker and the next. 

He breathes a sigh of relief, pocketing the thin envelope and sending a quick text to the manager thanking him and telling him he received the check. Lacking the urgency he had getting there, he takes his time walking through the hallway, flipping his keys casually through his fingers. He mentally subtracts the amount of money he used on their utilities bill, running the numbers again to make sure that there’ll be enough left for the rent check to go through–  

Lost in his thoughts, he barely notices another voice, until he rounds a corner, nearly colliding with Yuuri. 

Yuuri’s got a hand in his hair, his expression worried. Victor realizes that he’s on his phone a second later, his quick speech Japanese. He smiles at Victor, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

Victor smiles, giving a little wave but he keeps walking, not wanting to appear that he’s eavesdropping even though he doesn’t have a hope of understanding anything Yuuri’s saying. He does detect an edge of frustration in his voice before it cuts off altogether.

“Victor, wait!”

Victor freezes, and Yuuri’s pocketing his phone and jogging down the hallway to catch up to him a moment later. His hair is damp and pushed back from his forehead and he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt, as if he had just gotten out of the locker room shower. 

He’s also flushed and looks like he would be warm to the touch, but that’s none of Victor’s business. 

“Sorry to be rude,” Yuuri says. “Call from home.” He gestures with his phone. 

“Ah,” Victor says. “Everything ok?”

Yuuri shrugs. “Yes. Just family things, you know.”

_ Not particularly _ , Victor thinks, but nods nonetheless. The tension settles over them again, and he shuffles uncomfortably, wishing that they had the frankness of texting or at least Yuri’s cuteness to hide behind. Then he’s immediately guilty for using an infant to ease uncomfortable social interactions. 

Yuuri leans against the wall. “Am I keeping you? Sorry–  you probably have somewhere to be.”

Victor’s brain feels like scrambled eggs, but Yuuri is withdrawing, and he needs to keep him close.

“No, no. In fact, Come to dinner with me.”

The words fall from his mouth in desperation, and he swallows hard as if he had just confessed to murder. 

Yuuri’s brow furrows, not exactly the expression he’s looking for. “Are you sure you’re not busy? You looked like you were on your way somewhere.”

Victor shakes his head. “No. In fact–”  _ Might as well end my own life. _ “I have a babysitter. For Yuri.”

He expects Mila to appear and hit him over his head with his own tea kettle, but all he sees is Yuuri’s smile. Victor’s heart stutters.

Yuuri shuffles his feet. “Last time we were out–  things got complicated.”

“Not going to happen this time,” Victor says, throwing up his hands in his best innocent pose. “I’m a complete gentleman, and I swear I won’t have a nervous breakdown.”

“If you’re really sure…”

Mila’s voice echoes in his head.  _ I know Elena would want you to be happy. _

“Absolutely sure,” Victor says, flashing a charming smile. “Let’s get you something good. You’re in St. Petersburg, and I’m sure Yakov has you convinced that you can only eat a raw tomato for dinner if you want to land your quads.”

Yuuri cracks, and he’s treated to the sound of Yuuri’s laugh. 

“Ok.”

Yuuri’s already pulling open the door and striding out into the humid air as if he owned the town, and Victor sends a quick prayer of thanks to anyone who will listen, bending over his phone and sending a quick text to Mila while he chases after Yuuri.

“So where are we going?” Yuuri asks when they’re back on the main street. 

Victor racks his brain. “Uh–  well depends on what you’re in the mood for. There’s a good italian place around the corner–  or if you want good Russian food we can go to the place a couple blocks up.”

Yuuri shrugs. “You decide. Just remember you’re competing with the tomato currently ripening on my desk.”

Victor laughs again, feeling lighter than he has in months. His phone buzzes in his pocket; he glances at it quickly. 

_ You owe me, Nikiforov. Have fun with your boy. _

Despite himself, the words send a tingle down his spine. Just a friendly dinner among friends, nothing crazy. He sends a quick thank you to Mila, pocketing his phone and turning his attention to picking a place to eat. 

They end up at a small family run place Victor had been to a few times with Mila after practice. The staff is friendly for St. Petersburg, used to dealing with tourists and locals alike, and the food is plentiful and good. They’re seated immediately, and Victor doesn’t even look at the menu, knowing already that he’ll be getting a plate of potato pancakes, preferring to watch Yuuri. He peers at the menu through his glasses, the dim light revealing they are very smudged, squinting at the mostly cyrillic menu. 

“My Russian is terrible,” he mutters, reddening slightly when he looks up and sees Victor’s gaze on him. 

Victor almost launches across the table to help, but instead he slides closer to Yuuri in the round booth to look at the menu with him. 

“This here–” He points to a section title. “Are all the soups. The borscht is good, but not the best I’ve ever had. They have more European style food too. I’m getting the  _ deryni _ –   potato pancakes, they’re wonderful.”

“I’ll have those,” Yuuri says quickly, putting down the menu.

“Good!” Victor says, regretfully retreating back into his space. “How do you feel about sour cream?”

Victor stutters in amazement as Yuuri tells him he’s never had it before, and then that begins a whole discussion on non-dairy versus dairy, and Victor knows he would be happy to talk about the color of the carpet if he could only keep hearing Yuuri’s voice wrap around each English syllable like a warm blanket. 

“How was the rest of practice today?” Victor asks after the waiter has taken their orders.

Yuuri shrugs. “Not bad. We received our assignments for the Grand Prix–  well those of us participating at least.”

“That’s big news, Yuuri!” Victor says, “Where are you going?”

“Um, Beijing–  Cup of China, and Moscow.”

Victor smiles. “Wonderful! So you’ll be back in Russia before you know it.”

Yuuri looks slightly uncomfortable for a moment before he nods. “Yes. It’ll be interesting. I’ve never competed in these events before, last year I was in Skate America and it was in Detroit. Didn’t have to go far–  and then I had the NHK trophy back home.”

The waiter sets their drinks down and Victor takes a sip of his water. “That must have been nice. To go home, I mean.”

Yuuri slides a finger through the condensation on the side of his glass. “It was. My sister came to see me. I didn’t medal though.”

“This is a brand new year though!” Victor says. “Now you’ve got that quad salchow. Georgi can still barely land it.”

“It’s still shaky. I wouldn’t call it a success yet.”

“You still have time.”

Yuuri smirks, laughing softly to himself. 

“What’s funny?” Victor asks.

Yuuri shakes his head. “Nothing–  it just made me think of being home. My mother always would say something like that.”

“Is she a skater?"

“No,” Yuuri says. “No one in my family skates. But they are supportive. She would always tell me when a came home from practice–  frustrated when I didn’t perfect a new move the same day I learned it–  and she would say ‘You have time, Yuuri-chan.’”

“She sounds lovely.”

Yuuri shrugs. “Kind of a lame story–  sorry. What about your family? Do they live around here?” 

Victor bites his lip, pulling slightly at the skin with his top teeth. “My father lives in Moscow, he teaches at the conservatory there. My mother passed away when I was fourteen–  she was a dancer.” He keeps his voice even, not wanting to appear overly emotional. 

Yuuri looks horrified. “I’m sorry–  I shouldn’t have pried.”

“It’s ok, Yuuri.” Victor says, smiling. He scrambles, trying to make Yuuri comfortable again. “I want to get to know you, too. That requires at least a little prying.”

Yuuri’s smile is back at that, along with a pretty blush on his cheeks. Their waiter returns at that moment, asking for their orders. After he leaves, Victor continues his explanation. 

“Truthfully, Yakov and Lilia were a good little family to me, at least while I was still young. My father got a job in Moscow, but I wanted to stay here for skating. He let me stay.”

Yuuri frowns. “Your father was ok with that?”

Victor shrugs. “It was the best thing for the time.”

“And now?”

Yuuri’s eyes are penetrating when Victor looks up.

Victor laughs nervously. “Still good, now. He’s a good man, but I don’t think he could have done it on his own. We still talk, once in awhile, and he was very supportive of my skating. He’s met Yuri.”

Yuuri doesn’t push further, nodding and settling back in his chair. “How’s Yuri?”

Victor smiles, always happy to talk about Yuri over absentee fathers. He regales an exciting tale of how Yuri nearly crawled into the washing machine, partially hauling himself into a standing position in the process. 

“I swear,” Victor says. “That child will be talking by the end of August. There’s so much  _ life _ there. He’s never been a passive baby.”

“He’s lucky to have you, if you didn’t notice that already.”

Victor shakes his head automatically. “No. I wish I could give him more. Even now I should be home.” He holds up a hand to stop Yuuri from feeling guilty.  “No, I want to be here with you, trust me. I just feel like Yuri doesn’t get enough time with me. With work, that is.”

Yuuri’s brow dips, as if deep in thought. “My parents were always there, growing up. They ran the family business and we lived in it. But even though they were there all the time with us, it wasn’t like they could always be our parents. So I don’t think it matters if you’re away a little bit of Yuri’s day, as long as when you are there you make it count.”

Victor blinks. “That’s very profound, Yuuri.”

Yuuri smiles, ducking his head. “I can tell you’re a good father, Victor.”

Victor swallows hard, and a moment later the waiter is there with their pancakes, heaped on the plate like a figure skating nutritionist's nightmare. Victor digs in immediately, happy for a distraction from the intensity of Yuuri’s gaze on him, spreading his first bite with sour cream and plopping them in his mouth. Yuuri eyes his plate surreptitiously. 

“That’s… a lot,” he says. 

Victor chews thoughtfully, recognizing Yuuri’s look. “I promise you won’t sabotage your season if you eat the pancakes. I ate them plenty while training. Sometimes the day of a competition.”

“I gain weight easily.”

Victor dips his head, trying to catch Yuuri’s eye. “Hey, you don’t have to eat them if you don’t want to. I know Yakov is strict with his students’ diet plans.”

Yuuri’s gaze turns steely, and he picks up his fork. He spears a bit of pancake and eats it, eyes fluttering shut once he registers the taste.

Victor smiles. “Good?”

Yuuri nods. “Yes.”

“Better than the tomato?”

Yuuri opens his eyes again, taking another bite and dipping it in sour cream. “I’ll let you know when I’ve eaten the tomato.”

They dig in truly then, and the room begins to darken as the sun goes down. A manager walks around, lighting the small candles at each table. In the warm light, Victor notices how deep and brown Yuuri’s eyes are. 

The waiter comes back to take their plates once they’ve cleared them of the delicious pancakes, setting the bill on the table. They both go for it at the same time.    


“Let me–” 

“I got it–”

“I asked you to come, Yuuri,” Victor says, swiping the receipt out from under Yuuri’s hand. “Let me treat this time. Think of it as payback for all that free tea you gave me. And because I was an ass to you.”

“Victor…”

Yuuri lets him, however, and he swipes his credit card from his wallet, trying to look cavalier while mentally doing the math to make sure he’s still under his credit limit for the month. He sits on edge while the waiter plugs his card into the reader, sighing when it’s approved and he can swipe his signature on the receipt. 

He’s sad when they mount the steps out of the restaurant and back out onto the street, the late summer sun finally setting. The dorms where the summer program students stay are just around the corner, back closer to the rink. Victor walks him there. 

“Thank you,” Yuuri says. “For dinner.”

Victor smiles. “You’re welcome.”

“Even though my stomach feels like I swallowed a brick.” Yuuri smirks mischievously. 

Victor feigns affrontement. “That was good Russian food you just had. Will help you get  _ strong _ .”

Yuuri laughs at his exaggerated accent, his eyes crinkling delightfully in the corners.

“Can we do this again?” he asks. 

“Sure!” Victor says, voice echoing embarrassingly loudly off of the brick dormitory. “At least once more before you leave.”

Yuuri nods, suddenly looking uncomfortable again. “Right. Yes. Thank you, again.”

He fumbles for his keys in his pocket, finally finding the right one and sticking it in the front door. He wrenches it open, barely looking back over his shoulder and shouting a hurried “Good night!” before the door falls shut and he heads up the stairs at a jog. 

Victor’s left in the humid night air, the sounds of night-life beginning all around him, feeling for all the world like he’s missing  _ something _ .

“Good night,” he whispers, heading in the opposite direction back toward the train station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quip about Yuuri only eating a raw tomato for dinner is an homage to Johnny Weir's biography, where he talks about only eating a tomato for dinner in order to keep weight for training. Obviously, Yuuri and athletes in general need more food than that to maintain energy levels for training, but that doesn't mean that Yuuri doesn't get frustrated with his slow metabolism sometimes and succumbs to more fad-like dieting once in a while. Obviously I don't advocate it. #giveYuurifood2k17
> 
> As always, thank you for reading and giving me feedback! It really means the world!
> 
> Come scream at me about yoi on tumblr: destielpasta.tumblr.com


	6. Chapter 6

The satisfying  _ thwack _ of Yuuri’s blade against the ice echoes throughout the rink, the tell-tale sign of a well-landed jump. Galina looks over Victor’s shoulder, where he knows Yuuri is skating. 

She sighs. “I’ll never be that good.”

He clicks his tongue impatiently, feeling like Lilia. “Not if you keep staring at him instead of practicing your combination spins.”

She huffs, throwing her hair over her shoulder while she skates away. He knows Galina needs sharp instruction once in awhile, but still he wishes his frustrations didn’t come from his own lack of self-control regarding Katsuki Yuuri.

The man is a menace.

He had stayed on the rink after the other foreign skaters had long gone, seeming to be running through each of his program elements while also periodically catching Victor’s eye and smiling as though he was innocent. 

He’s not.

Yuuri skates by him, ruffling Victor’s hair with the breeze he creates before swooping into a choctaw-based sequence with a bit more hip action than was strictly traditional in male figure skating. 

Victor swallows, face burning slightly. He turns towards Roza and Kostya, correcting their form on their combination jumps. Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri skates to the barrier, gulping down water from a bottle sitting on the ledge. He glances back at his students; they are all working independently for  the moment. 

He glides over to Yuuri, attempting to look more like the charming Victor Nikiforov written about in skating magazines and less like a flustered skating coach who can’t keep his eyes to himself. 

“Is that from your free or short program?” he asks. Professional. Cool.

“Short,” Yuuri says, smiling. “My coach in Detroit choreographed it, but Yakov has made a few adjustments.”

“Will your coach be ok with that?”

Yuuri just shrugs, avoiding his gaze again. Just then, Galina flubs a crossover during her step sequence.

“No Galya, how many times do I have to tell you–”

He ends up going to her, running through the step sequence with her, snapping his fingers to keep time. 

“You see–  if your foot is still in the air on the count of four, you’re late. If you’re late, you’re–”

“Not making music,” she mutters under her breath.

Victor narrows his eyes. “Again.”

He rejoins Yuuri at the barrier, both watching Galina carefully as she moves through the sequence. It’s smoother, and her foot touches down right on the beat. 

Victor gives her a nod when she finishes. “Again,” he says, crossing his arms.

Yuuri laughs softly behind him. “You’re quite the strict coach.”

Victor sighs. “I don’t like to be. But in two weeks she’ll be Yakov’s student, and he doesn’t take well to dramatic thirteen year olds.”

Yuuri nods. “Her choreography is good. She’s lucky to have had you leading up to Juniors.”

Victor smiles. “Thank you. I’ll miss her, she has… personality.”

Yuuri laughs softly. “She reminds me of Phichit with our coach in Detroit. Always bantering.”

Victor nods, smiling. “I can picture it. Ah well, I suppose it’s my penance for being such a headstrong student with Yakov all those years.”

“I can’t imagine that at all.”

Victor shoves him playfully with his shoulder. “Ha-ha.”

They watch the novices in silence for a few more minutes before Yuuri excuses himself for the night, heading towards the locker room. He emerges a few minutes later, back in street clothes with his gym bag over his shoulder, waving goodbye to Victor before exiting through the big double doors. 

Soon enough Victor’s bidding his students goodbye and locking up the rink for the night, walking with tired, heavy steps toward the locker room to collect his things. He sits down on the bench, his skates halfway untied when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Lilia’s name flashes across the screen. He sighs, swiping to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Vitya,” she says, clipped like the bobby pins she keeps in her hair. “How are you?”

“I’m good, Lilia, and you?” He shoulders his phone to unlace his other skate. 

“Hmm,” Lilia answers, ignoring his question. “How is Yura?”

“Good. Waiting for me me at home.”

“Are you at the rink? Have you spoken with Yakov?”

Victor yanks a skate off, tossing it in his bag. “I haven’t seen Yakov in days. Our schedules have been different.”

“I see.” Lilia pauses. “Vitya, there’s something we have to tell you.”

“Well spit it out Lilia I’m trying to get out of here–”

“Yakov has filled your spot.”

Victor pulls his other skate off violently, almost nicking his forehead with the toe pick and sending the phone flying across the floor. He bends down to pick it up, heart pounding. 

“Lilia? Are you there?”

“Yes.”

He leans forward, resting his head in his hand. “What do you mean? My spot?”

“I mean that you’re not returning to the team. At least not with Yakov as your coach. He’s found someone to replace you.”

Victor sighs. He  _ knows. _ He’s known for months, ever since he had laid on an exam table and was pronounced broken by three different specialists. But to hear it like a punishment, from a woman who was supposed to care for him– 

“I know Lilia. I’m not returning to skating. So what if Yakov has replaced me?” He tries to make the words as coarse and uncaring as possible. 

There’s silence on the other end of the line. He hears Lilia’s quiet breathing. 

“I had thought–” she starts. “I had thought you needed to hear it to start skating again.”

“You wanted to hurt me. You wanted to break me so that I would do what you want.” They’re not questions. They’re accusations, and from the heavy silence on the other end of the line, Victor knows they ring true. 

“Is that correct, Lilia?”

“Vitya–”

“Goodbye.”

He hangs up, holding the warm phone against his forehead as he tries to calm his racing heart. It registers that he’s still holding his other skate. e sends it flying across the room, and it hits the row of lockers with a heavy  _ clang _ of metal against metal. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but they don’t fall. 

After a few minutes, he gets up to inspect his skate for damage. They had been a gift from a potential sponsor after Victor had taken third place in the Rostelecom Cup the year before. Custom made, beautifully lined, they hadn’t even been delivered until after the accident. He hadn’t been able to break them in until Elena was cold in the ground. 

He sighs, shoving the skate into his bag, none the worse for wear. Out of the corner of his eye he spots something black leaning against the side of a column of lockers. He steps closer, recognizing the shape and curve of another pair of skates. He stoops down to inspect them; they’re the same expensive brand as his own. If their owner had any sense they would– 

There it was. On the inside tongue.  _ Property of Katsuki Yuuri.  _

“Shit,” Victor breathes. He pulls out his phone, calling Yuuri’s number. It goes straight to voicemail, and he sends him a text instead. 

He waits a few minutes, but his call with Lilia had already put him closer to Anna’s shift ending as it was. He fidgets for a few moments, getting his bag together while waiting for Yuuri to call back. The call doesn’t come, however, and after five minutes, Victor shoves Yuuri’s skates into his bag next to his own without thinking, zipping up the bag and striding out of the rink. 

He stares at his phone on the train ride, waiting for Yuuri to reply, or even to realize that his skates are gone. It doesn’t come, and within twenty minutes he’s keying into his apartment with the skates still in his bag. 

“Late,” Anna says, her hair already wrapped in a plastic cap to ward off the rain outside.

“Lilia called,” he says by way of explanation. 

Anna nods. “Fair enough. She’s a handful.”

Anna leaves within a few minutes, aiming him towards the food sitting in a pot on the stove and telling him how Yuri cried most of the night before having a bath and falling asleep. He checks on him, now fast asleep despite the muffled sound of the car alarm going off outside his window. He checks and makes sure he’s comfortable, drawing the curtain shut behind him when he goes back in the main room. He takes a quick shower, leaving the door open to listen for Yuri’s cries.

Once he’s out, he eyes Anna’s stew on the stove, deciding to let it cool and put it in the fridge since his appetite seems to have dissipated since Lilia’s phone call. He puts dishes away that Anna had stacked neatly in the rack, and throws a load of towels into the washing machine. 

He takes a shot of vodka from the bottle under his sink like medicine, briefly toying with the idea of getting drunk before shaking his head and putting the bottle back. 

He finds himself back in Yuri’s bedroom, pulling up a chair to sit next to his crib. 

He leans against the rails, watching Yuri’s belly rise and fall with each breath he takes. He hadn’t seen him since early that morning; Anna picked him up from Maria’s since he had gone straight from the restaurant to the rink. 

“Are you happy, Yuratchka? Do Maria and Anna talk to you? Do they ever sing to you?”

Yuri is as peaceful and as quiet as ever, and Victor sighs, letting his eyes fall shut. 

He’s been replaced. Just like that, his skating career is over. He had known it before, sure, but had always been slightly consoled that his spot was still open, that there was one less skater on Yakov’s team. His hip aches the more he thinks about it. 

He dozes slightly, half-formed dreams of the ice flashing before his eyes. He sees himself, flying through the air and landing perfectly, but then Yuuri is over his shoulder spinning and spinning until he’s only a blur– 

He snorts as his phone vibrates, jolting him awake. He squints at it, Yuuri’s name emblazoned across the screen. 

_Shit!_ _Do you have them? Are you going to be at the rink in the morning?_

Victor stares at the text for a few moments before remembering that he has Yuuri's skates. Groggily, he sits up and thinks through his schedule. Tomorrow he works the breakfast shift at the restaurant before teaching his beginner class at 5 o’clock. He wouldn’t be able to make it to the rink before then. 

_ I’m not. I’m sorry, I probably should have just left them. I didn’t want anyone to mess around with them. _

Yuuri’s reply is quick.

_ No! I’m glad you took them. Thank you.  _

There’s a pause before the three dots pop up again, indicating that Yuuri is typing. 

_ Where do you live? Do you mind if I pick them up now? _

Victor purses his lips, his thumbs hovering over the keyboard before he types out his address. He hits send, and Yuuri’s reply is instant. 

_ On my way. _

Victor types out more directions and tells Yuuri which train station to take and where to get off–  Yuuri doesn’t reply. For a moment he pictures him flustered, his Russian elementary at best as he tries to navigate the city and not inconvenience Victor in any big way. He thinks of calling him, but would that appear desperate? Obviously Yuuri can text, but does he have an international phone plan?

The buzzer from the washing machine goes off, jerking him out of his ridiculous thoughts and back to reality. Yuuri was coming  _ here _ , to his tiny apartment in old Soviet housing with the creaky floors and woven blankets draped over the couches. He flutters about, the apartment already tidy from Anna’s ministrations but he feels restless nonetheless. The clothes in the washing machine will get musty; he can’t be hanging them on the clothesline when Yuuri is  _ on his way _ .

Fifteen minutes turn into twenty, and the hand on his old clock turns to eleven. Two minutes later, there’s a knock at his door. 

He straightens up from where he had been collecting dust bunnies from underneath the couch, blowing his fringe out of his face as he staggers to his feet. Hi heart pounds in his throat. How should he go about this? Should he have the skates in his hand when he opens the door, ready to give Yuuri what he had come here for? Should he invite him in so it doesn’t look like he’s just shoving him back out into the night?

He settles for opening the door empty handed, and suddenly Yuuri is  _ right there _ , standing on his threshold wearing a terrible grey hat.

“Hi,” he says, and Victor wonders how  _ anyone _ is supposed to respond to that.

“Hi!” He settles with, standing aside and gesturing for Yuuri to come in. “Your skates are right over here in my bag, I’ll just get them.”

He catches Yuuri’s blush out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, thank you. I can’t believe I did that. I had a book in my bag–  and it made it feel heavy enough to have my skates in it. Stupid.”

“Not stupid.” Victor fishes out the black skates from his bag next to the door to Yuri’s room. “It happens.”

He holds them out to Yuuri, and he deflates with relief when they’re back in his hands. He tucks them into a bag almost identical to Victor’s.

“Thank you again.”

“Of course.”

They stand in silence for a moment. Yuuri’s eyes dart around, seeming to only just notice the room.

“You have a nice apartment,” he says, bowing his head slightly. 

“Thank you,” Victor says. “It’s just enough for me and Yura.”

For some reason, Yuuri smiles. “That’s a cute name. For Yuri, I mean.”

Victor grins. “Russians love diminutives for names. Especially for children. I barely ever call him Yuri. Yuratchka is another one.”

Yuuri nods. “What’s yours?” He asks quickly, then blushes and ducks his head immediately. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my business.”

Victor laughs, and is astounded with the change in Yuuri’s confidence level once he’s off the ice. “It’s ok, Yuuri, it’s not a forbidden topic. Vitya is the one I use. Though only Yakov and his wife call me that now. And Mila I suppose.”

Yuuri nods politely, his blush receding a bit. Victor doesn’t want Yuuri to feel uncomfortable, but he does miss that blush when it goes away. 

“I should be going–”

“You should stay a moment.”

Yuuri looks around. “At eleven o’clock at night?”

Victor nods, his cheeks burning through his earnestness. “Yes. I have tea.You could have some.”

“Tea?”

“Tea!” He immediately lunges at his cabinet, pulling out the box of caravan tea and filling a pot with boiling water in one fluid motion. “Tea like you’ve never had before. My Grandmother taught me the proper way to make it–  even though it’s very fussy. I don’t mind though, it does taste delicious when you go through  _ all the steps _ –  I might even have some jam–”

“Victor?”

“Of course you don’t  _ have  _ to stay, I don’t want you to feel like you have to–  it  _ is  _ late–”

“Victor?”

He whips around, the words halting in his mouth with all the grace of a freight train told to stop on a dime. Yuuri’s smiling at him though, and sliding his horrible grey hat off of his head and putting it on the kitchen table. 

“I’d love to stay–  just for a little while, if you still want me to.”

Victor’s face splits into a grin so wide he should be embarrassed, but he just unfreezes, continuing his bustling around the kitchen. “Of course, of course, I won’t keep you long–  the night is horribly chilly though–  and the tea will give you the energy you need to get home safely.”

“Of course it will,” Yuuri says with mock seriousness. 

Victor gets Yuuri into a seat at the table and takes great care to prepare the tea, wanting to give Yuuri an authentic experience to make it worth his while, even though his kettle is chipped and burned black on one side. 

“The trick is to prepared the kettle with boiling water, and  _ then  _ throw in your tea leaves, dry. They steam, and then when you add the hot water it makes much better tea,” He explains, knowing he’s babbling but unable to stop. “Then you make–  what’s the english word?-- sort of like a liquid but  _ denser _ –”

“A concentrate?” Yuuri supplies, laughter behind his words. 

Victor points at him with in victory, brandishing the caravan tea box. “That’s the one!” He freezes, shrinking back. “I should be quieter. We need to let sleeping Yuras lie.”

Yuuri laughs openly at that, stifling the sound behind his hand. 

“Is Yuri sleeping?” he asks, his voice a step above a whisper.

Victor adds hot water to the steamed leaves. “Yes. He’s started crawling everywhere. He’s obsessed with anything shiny. Nearly took all the knobs off the cabinet doors when he first discovered them.”

“Better hide your skates.”   


“I know,” Victor says, coming to sit at the table with Yuuri while the tea steeps. “He had his eye on them the other day.”

Yuuri sits back in his chair, fidgeting with his hands in his lap. “Do you think he’ll skate? When he’s older?”

Victor shrugs, suddenly inundated with visions of an older Yuri. Would his hair stay that pale? Would he want to skate at all?

“I don’t know. I’m sure once he’s easier to take around he’ll be at the rink more–  and kids are naturally curious. If he wants to, I won’t stop him of course.”

“That’s how I began. My sister took lessons and I always wanted to go to the rink to watch her when my mother picked her up,” Yuuri says.

“Hmm,” Victor nods, the sudden talk of skating sobering him, reminding him of Lilia’s words from earlier. “But how are your programs coming? Galina was such a menace earlier I had to cut you off.”

Yuuri shrugs, picking at the fabric of his jeans. “It’s good–  I guess. Yakov made some good changes, but I’m still not connecting with the music as much as I had hoped by now. It still feels like… a circus act. Have you ever felt that way?”

Victor nods. “It takes time to settle, for sure. And you have time before the season starts for the year. Summer camp is more about refining your technique with Yakov, it’ll all come together when you’re back with your coach.” The words are professional and distant sounding, even though Victor didn’t want to think of Yuuri leaving. 

“Ah–  yes.” Yuuri leans away, resting his elbow on the table. “I think your water’s boiling again.”

Yuuri’s decline in mood isn’t lost to Victor, but he rises to fix the tea. It’s reached the perfect concentration, and he adds a splash of it to each mug, along with a spoonful of sugar and a dollop of hot water to heat it back up and bring it to the right potency. 

“I take my tea sweet here,” Victor says as he beckons Yuuri over to the couch,  handing Yuuri the mug once he’s settled.

“Thank you.” Yuuri takes a cautious sip, smiling at the taste. “It’s delicious. And I like your mug.”

He holds it up next to his face, smiling to match the cartoon poodle on the side of the mug. It’s a forced smile that fades quickly.

“I’ve always wanted a poodle…” Victor says absentmindedly, but uneasiness settles over them with Yuuri’s mood change. Yuuri is closer to him now on couch than at the table; his nerves slide off of him like a waterfall. “Yuuri?”

“Yes?” he answers, avoiding Victor’s gaze by taking another sip of tea. 

“Is something wrong?”

Yuuri looks at him, a frown curling the sides of his mouth down. 

“Did I make you uncomfortable?” Victor ventures again. 

Yuuri shakes his head rapidly, almost in danger of spilling his tea before setting it on the coffee table. “No! Of course not. You’ve been a good friend here, even after, well–  you know.”

Victor blushes at the memory of Yuuri pressed against him in the club bathroom. “You just seem like something is bothering you.”

Yuuri sighs. “It’s just–  Yakov offered me a place at the club. To train, I mean. He drew up a contract last week for him to be my coach.” 

The words come out faster and faster as Yuuri gets going, Victor’s eyebrows furrow. 

“But–  the club is funded by the government. They wouldn’t let a foreign skater train there,” Victor says, confused. 

Yuuri shakes his head. “That’s what I thought until Yakov said he cleared it all with the Japanese federation and that it will be fine. He said he sees–  potential in me, I guess.” He throws the last line away, looking uncomfortable even voicing it. 

Victor sets his own tea on the coffee table, sitting back into the cushions. “So that means… there isn’t an empty spot anymore.”   


Yuuri turns, his knee sliding up onto the couch so that he can face Victor completely. “I know–  I should have asked you–  I didn’t know it was your spot until after I signed the contract. If I had know, I would have asked you–” He gestures wildly, as if he were trying to prove his sincerity with his range of motion. 

Victor smiles sadly. “That’s not on you, Yuuri. Besides,” he takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t my spot. It was just an empty spot. I’m retired, remember?”

Yuuri’s hands fall, still in his lap once more. “Are you? I mean, are you ok with that?”

Victor shrugs, unable to keep the bitterness out of the motion. 

“You’re mad,” Yuuri says. “I’ll go–  I’m so sorry–” 

He starts to rise, and Victor’s heart surges into his throat and he lunges forward, grabbing for the hem of Yuuri’s jacket. Yuuri staggers back and he lets go, as if his hand was burning. 

“Sorry Yuuri! I didn’t mean to pull you. I just,” he swallows. “I don’t want you to go. I’m not mad. Sit down. If you want. Please.”

Yuuri lowers himself back on the cushions, sitting on the edge. “I don’t… I know you thought I was going to be leaving soon. Maybe you were looking forward to that,” he adds quietly.

Victor resists the urge to laugh. What a ridiculous notion, when Yuuri had been on his mind for weeks, the sole thing he looked forward to in his days besides coming home to Yuri. Victor, haunted by the ghost of his dead friend, bruised and beaten and unable to skate for his country–  but still looking for Yuuri around corners at the rink like a teenager with their first crush. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Victor says. “You wouldn’t have gotten rid of me that easily.”

Yuuri worries at his bottom lip. 

“Yeah?” Yuuri says, his American English coming through in his earnestness. 

Victor straightens, leaning forward, approaching Yuuri’s space. “Would you believe me if I told you that you were the first person to make me smile in months?”

Yuuri purses his lips, that beautiful flush Victor has come to admire creeping up his neck. “I don’t know. But... I’d like to.”

Victor smiles, alarm bells clanging in head that he promptly ignores. He lays a hand on Yuuri’s arm, gently turning him to face him. Yuuri’s eyes are brown, dark enough for Victor to lose himself in. His hand travels down to the bare skin of Yuuri’s wrist, and he strokes his thumb over it gently. Yuuri’s breath comes out in a small huff from his barely parted lips; Victor’s eyes linger on them before meeting Yuuri’s eyes again, asking permission. 

It’s Yuuri who leans in.

The kiss is different this time, softer, more hesitant. Without the haze of alcohol Victor feels present, unlike the heady moment at the club. Yuuri’s lips push gently against his, but don’t seek to deepen the kiss. He tastes like the smoky tea Victor has made for him, just a whisper of it stinging Victor’s mouth. 

After a moment, too soon, Yuuri pulls back.

He sighs, laying his head on Victor’s shoulder. “Victor…”

“Too much?” Victor asks, starting to back away.

Yuuri shakes his head against him and pulls him closer, their knees bumping together, side-by-side.

“I’m just confused,” Yuuri says. “If you tell me something, I’ll believe you. You say you don’t want me, but then you do this and then–”

Victor takes his face between his hands. “But it was never that. My life is complicated. I have a child. You’re–  you have such a future ahead of you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “I should go then? Because I might have a future in figure skating?”

Victor’s eyes widen. “No! Don’t do that.”

“Or is it because I’m a man? I know things are hard here, with that–  it is in Japan too–”

“No!” Victor says, throwing his hands out to emphasize the point. “I mean–  it’s something to think about– it’s not a joke. But, that’s not it.” 

Yuuri laughs, just a soft huff through somewhat smiling lips. “You have to be honest with me. I’m not good at… games. I just want to know if you want me here.”

Victor could get lost in Yuuri’s eyes, the way they shine even in the dim light and catch the moonlight from the window. 

Victor takes a breath. “I want you here. I can’t–  I can’t tell you how much. Very much. If you want me to be upfront.”

He holds Yuuri’s face between his hands, and Yuuri leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed. 

“Ok.”

Victor’s stomach drops, and he draws Yuuri close, fitting their lips together again, just the lightest of touches. Yuuri's hand moves from where it sits in his lap, drawing up and smoothing over Victor’s chest to settle over his heart, pressing slightly. 

Victor parts his lips, sighing at the touch and wanting more. He scoots closer, moving one hand to caress at Yuuri's neck, his thumb right at his pulse. Yuuri moans softly, the soft sound parting his lips and giving Victor space to tilt his head and deepen the kiss. Yuuri's hand at his chest curls into a fist, pulling to get Victor closer.

It's an awkward position, and the sofa is so narrow. Their knees bump as Yuuri endeavors to wrap his arms around Victor’s body, and Victor breaks away, frustrated but feeling inventive for it. Yuuri seeks him out again, his eyes dark, and Victor stands up momentarily to swing his legs over Yuuri's hip, effectively straddling him. His knees dig into the cushions and Yuuri gasps when their hips meet in earnest. 

“Victor–”

Victor steals his name right from Yuuri’s lips, hands coming up to cradle his face again. His heart pounds in his chest, something deep inside of him purring at the feeling of Yuuri under him, the heat of him so close. Yuuri kisses back with the same enthusiasm, parting his mouth to let Victor in, their faces slotting even closer together. Victor thrusts his tongue into Yuuri's mouth, flicking it over the space between his teeth and lip. 

Yuuri moans an unholy sound, the vibrations shooting straight to Victor’s groin. His hips stutter, seeking out friction through the thick layers of their clothes. He stops, ripping his lips from Yuuri's and bracing his hands against his shoulders, effectively breaking them apart. 

“I'm sorry,” he says. “I mean–  do you want– ”

He finally gets a look at Yuuri’s face, flushed and open and not at all affronted.

“Unless you–” Victor stutters, gesturing at the space between them. “Do you?”

A beat of silence stretches between them. His hands are still on Yuuri's shoulders. Yuri sleeps in the tiny closet room just a few feet from them, a thought that has Victor nearly scrambling away. 

To his surprise, Yuuri takes a fistful of Victor’s shirt in hand, pulling him close until they're nose to nose. 

“I do. Kiss me?” He asks, and Victor melts. 

Yuuri kisses like a man on fire, and Victor grips the back of the sofa frame, desperate to feel the press of his body. Yuuri makes the same noise right into his mouth, and Victor whimpers when Yuuri shifts his hips,  _ just so,  _ beneath his. Victor answers with an undulation of his own, grinding down and circling his hips, endeavoring to hear Yuuri moan as much as humanly possible. 

He buries his head in the soft skin of Yuuri’s neck, sucking lightly as Yuuri meets each of grind of his hips with a thrust of his own. Yuuri winds his arms around Victor’s torso, holding him close through the movements as a searing heat builds in Victor’s belly. He dips his head lower, moving the stretched-out collar of Yuuri's shirt aside and nipping Yuuri's collarbone. 

Yuuri’s back arches at that, a string of unintelligible Japanese falling from his mouth. Victor takes the opportunity to shift their positions, laying Yuuri back on the sofa so that his head is against the thin pillow on the arm rest. He wraps his legs around Victor’s hips, urging him closer again. 

The sight of Yuuri with his collar stretched and his throat reddened slightly from his ministrations beneath him nearly sets Victor over the edge. 

“Yuuri,” he says, grabbing one of Yuuri's hands and placing a kiss to the palm. “I–  I've wanted–” 

He stops, a flush creeping up his neck. Where has his poetry gone? Why does it feel like Yuuri has a hand to his throat instead of one pressed against his lower back? 

Yuuri smiles, brushing a hand through the hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. 

“I know.”

Yuuri guides him back down until their lips meet in a sweet kiss. Victor pours the unspoken words into the kiss, sinking a hand in Yuuri’s hair. Yuuri opens up to him again, parting his lips and grinding his hips upwards insistently. 

Victor smiles against his lips, meeting Yuuri's movements with thrusts of his own. The friction is almost too much, Yuuri's hard length pressed into his hip through their clothes. He wants to feel Yuuri in his hand, bring him off with touch, but he can't stop, the pressure building in his abdomen again. Yuuri doesn't seem to be suffering, and breathy moans fall from his lips. Victor is past kissing, panting into Yuuri's mouth as his fingernails dig into his back and his legs lock around hips. 

Victor comes first, burying his head against Yuuri's neck and nipping the juncture between his neck and shoulder. The pleasure is almost painful, coming in waves that give him goosebumps. He continues the motions, shuddering from oversensitivity as he tries to bring Yuuri over the edge. 

“Shh,” Yuuri says, stilling him with a hand to the small of Victor's back. “I can, you know.”

Yuuri unzips his own pants, pushing them and his boxes down enough to touch himself. Victor shifts so he’s laying on his side, watching Yuuri’s hand move in languid stroking motions as if through a fog, the vision intoxicating him. 

“Just,” Yuuri stutters. “Kiss my neck? I liked it when you did that.”

Oh, what a request. Victor acquiesces immediately, threading his fingers through Yuuri’s hair and angling his head to the side for better access. He kisses down the line from Yuuri's ear down to his collarbone, sucking lightly and laving his tongue over the barely-there marks. 

Yuuri's hand picks up the pace. “Harder–  ah–  you can do that harder.”

Victor’s head spins. He latches onto the soft skin again, sucking harder and biting down. Yuuri  _ whines _ , a piercing sound that instinctually has Victor throwing his other hand over Yuuri's mouth to stifle the noise. 

Yuuri doesn't seem to mind, squirming with his eyes shut tight as Victor laves his tongue over the tender new mark. Yuuri comes a moment later, moaning against Victor's hand and throwing his head back. 

Yuuri goes boneless, tension releasing as he comes down from the high. Victor kisses the side of his mouth, and Yuuri chases it until he receives a full kiss. It fades, the relaxed feeling taking over. Victor shifts into his side, laying his head on Yuuri's chest. 

“Wow,” Yuuri’s says, voice low and hoarse. 

“Yes,” Victor responds. “Sorry about–” he gestures to his own hand where it had relaxed away from Yuuri’s mouth.  

Yuuri laughs, a beautiful sound. He shifts, adjusting himself. “It's ok. I didn't want to wake Yuri either.”

Victor shifts back, up on his knees. Yuuri looks confused for a moment but Victor presses a finger to his lips. 

“I’ll be right back.”

Yuuri nods, and Victor scampers off his lap, feeling like he’s all limbs as he bumps his leg into the coffee table and almost trips over Yuri’s bumblebee toy that had somehow been spared from his cleaning binge. 

Yuuri giggles at the display he’s making. Victor straightens up, finding his balance. 

“Hush you!”

That only makes Yuuri laugh harder, and Victor can’t help the bubbling of happiness he feels once he locates a pair of clean sleep pants from the bureau and closes himself off in the bathroom. 

He leans back against the door, letting his eyes fall shut. His heart still beats from watching Yuuri and his limbs are jelly from it. All the touch he’d been missing in the last months. He catches his breath, stripping off his jeans and underwear and cleaning himself up quickly. He pulls on the clean pyjama pants and splashes his face with warm water from the faucet. He looks at himself in the mirror, smiling ear to ear with panic setting in behind his eyes. He takes a few breaths, not wanting to appear manic when he goes back out to Yuuri. 

He reemerges, wondering if he was too long, if Yuuri will be gone. 

He’s not. He’s sitting up on the couch, squinting at his phone. He peeks in on Yuri, finding him fast asleep.   


“Anything good on there?” Victor asks, walking back to the couch. He tosses Yuuri a pair of sweatpants.

Yuuri smiles up at him while pulling them on. “No.” He holds out a hand, hesitant. “Come back?”

Victor bites a piece of dry skin on his lower lip, his earlier mood somewhat sobered. He steps carefully around the coffee table and sits back down.

“Are you tired?” He asks, turning off the side table lamp. 

Yuuri nods.

“Let’s sleep.”

Victor scoots up and lays down, pulling Yuuri by the hand to settle behind him, his back to Yuuri’s chest. Yuuri hesitates for a moment before winding his arms around Victor. They stay like that for a moment, settling into the couch. Sleepily, Victor wonders if he should have told Yuuri that the couch pulls out, but then Yuuri is running his fingers through his hair, and he wouldn’t dream of it. 

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri whispers, the sound loud in the dark. 

“Why?” Victor whispers, playing with Yuuri’s fingers. 

“I’ve invited myself over.”

Victor smiles, settling back into Yuuri’s arms.

“The bridges are up,” he whispers.

“What does that mean?”

“All the bridges in St. Petersburg go up at night to accommodate boat traffic. It would be very difficult for you to get to your train station.”

There’s a pause, and Victor feels Yuuri’s uncertainty.

“And I want you here.”

They’re asleep within a few minutes. 

 

* * *

 

**_December 27, 2016_ **

 

_ It’s a short drive from the arena to their home rink. Five minutes. Ten minutes, if traffic is bad.  _

_ “I want to skate with you, after that performance!” Elena had said as soon as they left the Ice Palace, grabbing his hand and pulling insistently, Yuri’s car seat swinging from the other.  _

_ “Yuri should be in bed, Elena!” Victor shouts over the car radio. _

_ Elena sings without inhibitions, ignoring him, and Victor’s chest tightens. It’s some American pop song, the words so distorted from the poor quality of her car radio that he can’t even tell what the song is about. Headlights from passing cars shine against her bright hair, pulled back into a low bun that showcases the roundness of her face.  _

_ She turns to him, face spreading into a radiant smile. _

_ “Sing with me, Vitya!” _

_ He shakes his head, but joins in emphatically as soon as he latches onto the chorus. The had learned English together after all, using similarly poor pop music and TV show reruns as their teachers.  _

_ Elena practically bounces in her seat, excitedly looking back at her week-old baby in a rear-facing car seat, his own head just as blond as his mother’s.  _

_ “Did you know, Yuratchka, that your  _ _ uncle _ _ is the Russian Silver Medalist! The new hope for a Russian dominated podium! And he landed a quadruple flip, the first ever!” _

_ Victor feels near to bursting, running his fingers over the medal resting on his chest. His legs scream in exhaustion from completing his free program, but it had all been worth it to see his name amongst the stars for the briefest moment, the replay of his quad flip playing on the big screen over and over again to the gasps of the crowd...  _

_ He slips the medal off, fitting over the rear view mirror instead. In the light, it could be gold.  _

_ “It’s as good as yours, too,” he says, swallowing hard. “I couldn’t have done it without you, Elena.” _

_ Elena worries at her top lip, a habit she had picked up from having consistently chapped lips from the rink cold. “It was only you on the ice.” _

_ Victor takes a deep breath, trying to settle the war going on in his gut. The traffic light turns red and they come to a stop at the intersection.  _

_ “Elena, I have to tell–” _

_ Elena looks at him, her expression exhausted enough to cut him off. As if in a dream, he watches her jerk forward, chest coming in contact with the steering wheel. He feels it too, the tell-tale jerk of being rear-ended.  _

_ “ _ _ Shit,” Victor spits, looking around wildly. He puts his hand on Elena’s arm, looking back at Yuri’s carseat. “Are you alright?” _

_ She looks up at him, eyes unfocused. She raises a hand, pointing at something over his shoulder, a bright light growing closer with each passing moment. _

_ “Victor–” _

_ He’s aware of a bang, then a crunching noise. Yuri cries from the backseat as they spin, coming to a stop when they collide with something immoveable. Blackness dots Victor’s vision, pulling him down into unconsciousness.  _

 

* * *

 

Victor wakes up with screaming and sirens in his ears, tensing up and nearly toppling off the narrow couch. He braces himself against the floor with a hand, stopping the fall. He runs his other hand over his face. It comes away wet. 

He sighs and locates the source of the noise, his phone alarm screeching from where it is plugged in across the room. He stumbles away from the couch, his feet feeling stiff and swollen. He stops the alarm, the silence even more deafening. 

Yuuri is coming to, stirring on the couch, and Victor’s heart jumps into his throat. Elena’s face, fresh and fearful, burns behind his eyes and he has to look away, anywhere but at Yuuri.

He looks at his phone for the time. 7:30. The alarm must have been going off for a while. His shift at the restaurant starts in 45-minutes. 

“Shit,” he mutters, already in the kitchen, stumbling to get Yuri’s bottle ready. He’s out of sterilized bottles, so he throws one in a pan and fills it with water and puts in on the back burner on the stove. He should have gotten one ready the night before, knowing he had an early shift. His face burns at what had been the distraction.

“Victor?”

He swallows hard, but doesn’t stop. “I’m sorry, I have to get ready for work–  Yuri–”

At that moment, the baby in question starts wailing, obviously woken up hungry or in some kind of discomfort. Victor breezes past Yuuri, barely even catching his eye as he goes to Yuri’s room, parting the curtain and descending on his crib. 

“Shh, shh, Yuratchka, what’s it all about?” He lifts the crying infant from the crib, immediately realizing he’s in desperate need for a diaper change. He carries him over to the changing table, immediately stripping him out of his soiled clothes. Should he have checked him last night? He had been sleeping so peacefully–  

“Victor?” he hears again. 

Yuuri is standing in the door, the curtain parted under his hand. 

“The water on the stove is boiling,” he says, voice gentle. 

Victor wipes Yuri down with baby wipes, throwing them into the dispenser with the dirty diaper. “It’s fine. It needs to boil for a few minutes,” he says matter-of-factly.

He sees Yuuri nod out of the corner of his eye. His hair is messed up. Probably from Victor’s hands the night before. 

“Can I help you with anything?” Yuuri asks, voice timid. 

Victor keeps his eye on what he is doing. Yuri’s crying has at least tapered off into an upset whimper.

“No. I–  have a lot to do before my shift. I’m sure you have to get to the rink.”

The words come out cold and stilted, his voice low. Once Yuuri is clean and dressed, he hoists him onto his hip, breezing past Yuuri back into the kitchen. 

He feels Yuuri’s eyes on his back as he busies himself with making formula, Yuri already banging his fists on the tray table of his high chair. He lifts the bottle out of the boiling water, hissing as a few drops sear onto his hand. He runs it under cold water to cool it off quickly. 

“I’ll see you at the rink later?” Yuuri asks, an uptilt to his voice.

Victor nods, holding the bottle up to the light to measure out the water and powder. His face burns, but he doesn’t turn around. He hears the soft sounds of Yuuri slipping into his shoes and grabbing his bag, and the click of the door shutting behind him a moment later. 

Victor’s hands shake, and he almost drops the bottle. He steadies it on the counter instead, bracing his hands against the cold vinyl. He breathes, the air fire in his lungs. 

What had he done?

 

* * *

 

He keeps his head down while entering  _ Severyanin,  _  already ten minutes late despite the fact that he had taken the journey at a run. His manager eyes him severely, but he avoids her gaze as he ties his apron and slides his punch card into the ancient machine with a  _ snap _ .

It’s not a busy morning, regretfully, and his thoughts are free to wander while he wipes down empty tables. Elena’s face, smiling and excited behind the wheel of her shitty little car before they were rear-ended into oncoming traffic–  the sounds of sirens and disturbing creak as the rescue workers pried his door off the car. Part of the metal had lodged itself in his hip, the smell of blood coppery and overwhelming. Yuri screamed from the backseat, his cries scared and lonely. Victor had prayed to pass out, to be spared the view of Elena’s lifeless eyes where she had lain sprawled across the steering wheel. He hadn’t been so lucky. 

“Nikiforov!” comes a harsh whisper.

He jumps, realizing he had been wiping down the same table for over a minute. Antonin was at his own section, wiping down tables, and is eyeing Victor strangely. 

“What?” Victor says, straightening and moving to walk back to the kitchen. 

“You look haunted,” Antonin says. 

Victor laughs, trying to flash a trademark smile. “How dramatic, Antonin. I’m fine.”

He goes back to the kitchen, pushing through the double doors into the organized chaos. Antonin follows close behind. They stand side by side as the cooks set plates in front of them to be taken out to customers. 

“Look,” Antonin says, voice still low. “I know we don’t know each other well–  but I know we’re both, of a sort, and maybe I could help.”

Victor sighs. You go to one gay bar… “This isn’t about that. Though I should probably be worried about that too.”

“Is it about that young man that came to see you a few days ago?”

Antonin had harbored an obvious crush on him. What was he looking for now? Gossip? A way to get back at Victor for obviously ignoring him? 

“If you’re looking for gossip–”

“I’m not,” Antonin interjects. “I swear. I just think you deserve to be happy. After what happened to your friend.”

Victor purses his lips, hoisting his tray onto his shoulder. Only Mila, Lilia, and Yakov knew that he had been in the car with Elena, the death of an Olympian overshadowing his role. Reporters had shown up at the hospital, ready to find Victor Nikiforov, only to be told that Victor had not been in the car, that Elena had been driving alone. After all, Victor should have been at the medalists’ after-party, and everyone swore they had seen him there... 

Victor blows a lock of hair out of his eyes, not saying anything else, as he and Antonin go to deliver food to their respective tables. A moment later, a bell from the kitchen sounds, and they end up back in the same place. 

“He’s an international skater who was only supposed to be here for a month,” Victor says under his breath to Antonin. “He’s wonderful. And he stayed the night last night. I acted like an ass in the morning.”

Antonin laughs softly. “You aren’t the first to do that.”

Victor smiles, the first of the day. “I don’t know if I can make it right. I’m–  so much has happened in the past months.”

He nods. “But do you have feelings for him?”

Victor nods. 

“He can’t fix what’s happened,” Antonin says. “But I bet he could make you happy–  and maybe if you were happy things would look better in your own head.”

Victor bites the inside of his cheek. “You’re probably right. It still doesn’t excuse the way I ignored him this morning and practically kicked him out.”

Antonin laughs softly. “Well, that just might need an old-fashioned apology.”

“What if I messed it up for good?”

Antonin shrugs, lifting his own full tray to his shoulder. “You never know unless you try, right?”

He leaves Victor, his tray only half full as he waits for another order of  _ blini _ . 

Victor keeps his head down for the rest of his shift, punching out and leaving right at 2 o’clock to pick up Yuri from Maria’s. His manager hands his a foil wrapped stack of potato pancakes that had been made by mistake while he’s on his way out. He thinks he must look truly pitiful for someone to be giving him free food. 

He walks slowly back to the apartment block, taking his time until his 4 o’clock beginners class. Mist swirls in the air as if the day can’t decide if it wants to rain or not. It clings to his clothes and hair. 

He considers what Antonin had said, knows he has make things right. 

Yuri plays on the floor with another baby when he gets to Maria’s, banging soft blocks against the floor. 

“Totally resisted any pleas to nap, the both of them,” Maria says, playing annoyance but sounding amused nonetheless. 

“Don’t tell me you’re too old for naps already, Yuratchka,” Victor says, picking him up and bouncing him on his hip to Yuri’s delight. “You have to nap for the both of us.”

He reaches into his back pocket for Maria’s pay while she putters around the apartment. 

“Word is that Katya from down the hall saw an unfamiliar young man go to your apartment last night. Someone foreign.” Her tone is light and teasing. 

“Just a friend, Maria.” He hands her the money, nerves settling in his stomach. Maria is young and modern, but the last thing he needs is to lose his lease because of  _ Katya from down the hall _ . 

She takes it, counting it carefully like the shrewd business woman she is before putting it in her own back pocket. 

“Friend or not, that’s none of my business. Don’t worry, I told Katya to stop her tattling. I hope you’re having some fun, though.”

Victor smiles. “So nice of you to worry for me, Masha–”

She swats him with the dishtowel in her hand. “Out with you! Don’t you have a job to go to?”

He lets her playfully push him from the apartment, and again finds himself laughing in spite of himself. Last time he had dreamt of the crash and Elena, it had taken weeks to recovery.

“We can be ok, right Yura?” he says quietly while jiggling the key in the apartment lock. 

Yuri plays with his hair in response, tugging and crinkling it in his tiny hands. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

Caring for Yuri always evens him out, and his heart settles as he goes through their familiar routine. Yuri gets most of his mashed peas in his mouth and even takes a few excited bites of Victor’s potato pancakes, humming with joy at the taste. Victor plays a game of peek-a-boo with him while putting away clean dishes, Yuri’s delighted laughter making him feel light. 

His worry returns when Anna scratches at the door and it's time for him to go back to the rink. He grips the straps of his gym bag tight enough to bite into his hands as he walks to the train station playing through scenarios in his head 

He knows he's within his rights to ask for forgiveness, but would he take it, were he in Yuuri's shoes? After the show at the bar and Victor withdrawing not only once, but twice, would Yuuri care to trouble with him? 

He closes his eyes once he's through the bustle and on the train, running through the events of the night before. Yuuri had been so soft, so present and there–  and so kind and ambitious and in love with skating. Victor has wanted to lose himself in the stars in his eyes and take all his self-doubt and bottle it away. 

Hadn't he wanted the same for Elena? 

He sighs, her name never far from his thoughts. It wouldn't be fair to Yuuri if he were just a substitute for the girl who died too early. Even so, Elena had never been his. Yuuri had reached out multiple times only for Victor to draw away. 

He would have to reach out, this time. 

Yuuri is on the ice when he reaches the rink, spinning like he does in Victor’s dreams. Phichit watches from the barrier, filming him on an iPhone. 

“Nikiforov,” he says curtly when Victor approaches the barrier to watch Yuuri switch from a camel spin into an A spin. 

“I deserve that. And more,” Victor says, leaning against the barrier and propping his chin in his hands. 

Phichit sags visibly. “Well that makes this harder. I had plans. Mean ones. You know I can only be mean when it’s about Yuuri, right?”

Victor nods. “Seems a worthy cause to me.”

“It  _ is _ ,” Phichit says, “Yuuri doesn't just open up to anyone. You have to earn his personality.”

“And I've fucked it up twice.”

Phichit stops videoing then, giving Yuuri a thumbs up when he looks over for approval. Victor catches his eye, trying to smile, but Yuuri turns away too quickly and skates back to Yakov. 

Phichit nods. “You got it. Yuuri is–  well he's not naive. He's just shy and doubts himself. He can handle it. And he doesn't need your pity–  so if that's what this is–”

“Phichit,” Victor interrupts. “It’s not pity. It's - I care about him. I can't describe it yet–  but I want to make this right. Then maybe I'll be able to.” 

Phichit sighs. “I'm about to leave him here. We've been together on the rink for two years now. He barely speaks any Russian. Just–  promise me you'll return him in one piece?”

Victor doesn't know if it's responsible to make such a promise to as tenacious of a best friend as Phichit, but he nods. He’ll do what he can. 

Yuuri skates toward them a moment later, out of breath and flushed from his training. He nods at Victor, turning towards Phichit immediately.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

Phichit nods. “I’ll be in the locker room.” He backs away, pointedly giving them some space. 

“Yuuri,” Victor starts, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I’ve already asked so much of you, but will you stay? We–  I want for us to talk. I have to teach–  but I–”

He cuts off as Yuuri stares at him, taller than Victor while in his skates and over the barrier on the ice. He doesn’t have his glasses on, and Victor marvels at how transformed one man can become. 

“I won't stay,” he says. Victor’s heart stops, but Yuuri continues. “I promised Phichit I would get dinner with him, but I'll come back after that. When do you finish teaching?”

Victor stutters out his answer then Yuuri is gone with a nod, skating away with confident strides to the locker room. 

His beginners class goes by at a snail’s pace, the children more mischievous and distracted than normal and his patience wearing thin. He gets them set up doing laps, since anything else is hopeless. 

By the time Galina and the rest of the novices are there he's already mentally and physically exhausted, setting them laps to do as well before practicing any jumps or spins. Thankfully, even Galina doesn't give him any trouble. 

Yuuri returns near the end of his class, nearly hidden among all the parents waiting for their children. He's smaller again, much more familiar in a faded blue wool coat and wearing his glasses. Victor waves when Yuuri sees him, and nearly faints with relief when Yuuri offers a small smile. 

He wraps up the class within a few minutes, being sure to chat politely with parents and wish each student goodbye before fully turning his attention to Yuuri. 

The rink is empty; they're alone. 

“Hi,” Yuuri says, standing up to meet him. 

Victor smiles, thinking of his own silly panic from the night before at the same greeting. 

“Hi,” he responds. “Thank you for coming back.”

Yuuri nods. “It's not a far walk.”

“No. I guess not,” Victor says. “I used to come here late all the time when I was living in the dormitories.”

“Hm,” Yuuri says.

Victor bites his lip. “Yuuri. I'm sorry.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “You don't have to–”

“Yes I do. I should have–” he runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “This morning should have gone very differently.”

Yuuri looks up through his eyelashes. “How so?”

“Well,” Victor starts. “I should have kissed you good morning. And made you more tea–  or coffee. I would have asked you which one you preferred. I would have accepted your help because you've done nothing but try to help me and I wanted you there. Even after you left.”

Yuuri stands still. Waiting. 

“Last night was– ” Victor stops, the back of his neck burning. “You were lovely.”

Yuuri smiles at that, shaking his head and looking down at his shoes. 

“So were you.”

Victor relaxes, feeling bolder. 

“Yuuri,” he breathes, grabbing for his hand, needing something to anchor him. Yuuri looks down at it, but doesn’t pull away. “I’m a little broken. My best friend died right next to me and I’m not over it. I’m trying to raise her son and–” he swallows. “I care about you. You’re kind and good and I think about you all the time, and when I’m with you I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Yuuri purses his lips. “You were… in the car with her?”

Victor nods. “It’s how I was injured…” Victor squeezes his hand. “Can you forgive me?”

Yuuri sighs. “I can, I do, but I can only… I can only take so much, you know?”

“I do,” Victor says, his stomach clenching. “I know. I’ve been an asshole.  _ Blyat,  _ I don’t want to hurt you, Yuuri. And now that you’re here–  for a while at least–” he gestures wildly, not sure what he’s trying to say. “Everything’s coming out wrong.”

When he looks up Yuuri is smiling. It’s a small thing, but Victor clings to it. 

“It’s ok. I’m not good with words–  ever really.”

“I beg to differ.”

There’s a pause. Yuuri slips his hand out of Victor’s.

“I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, Yuuri,” Victor says. “But I won’t shut you out like I did today. I want to try to see if this can work.”

Yuuri swallows, the muscles of throat working. Slowly, he nods. 

“Ok,” he says. “Yes. I want that too.”

“Yes?” Victor says, deflating, his face splitting into his first smile all day. “Good. That’s good–”

Yuuri pulls him forward then, one hand on his forearm as he pulls him in for a kiss. Victor responds as soon as he is able, sliding his hand up and pressing a palm gently to his face. The kiss is soft despite Yuuri’s urgency, matching the cold emptiness of the rink. 

The separate after a few moments. Yuuri’s smile is like looking into the sun. Victor rests his head against Yuuri’s shoulder, blinded and sighing. 

“I think we both have a flair for the dramatic.”

Yuuri snorts, stroking Victor’s hair back, running his fingers through it. After a moment, Victor wraps his arms around him, pressing his hands into the planes of his back. They stand still for a moment, the echoing sounds from the rink seeming miles away.

“I want to take you out on a proper date. Something with candles and all the romance–” Victor says, his voice muffled by Yuuri’s jacket. 

Yuuri laughs softly. “That sounds nice.”

“Next week then?” Victor pulls back to see Yuuri’s eyes. “I can line up a sitter by then.”

“Ok,” Yuuri says. “Next week it is. That’s the start of my official Grand Prix training, so don’t tell Yakov I’m going out for dinner.”

His stomach clenches. The sadness threatens to prick at Victor again, but he won’t have it. He can’t make Yuuri feel guilty for talking about skating. 

“I won’t tell,” Victor says, his hands settling on Yuuri’s hips. “Promise.”

Yuuri presses a hand to the side of his face and then they’re kissing again. There’s more of an edge to it this time. Victor kneads his hands over Yuuri’s hips and Yuuri moans at the touch, sucking on Victor’s top lip, then the bottom, before coming back to kiss him with an open mouth. Victor deepens the kiss, backing Yuuri slowly into the wall behind them. Yuuri gasps, locking his arms around Victor’s neck, making it easier for them to press together, hips to hips, chest to chest.

Victor can’t remember why he had resisted this, how he had thought Yuuri could ever be bad for him. He exhales with a soft sigh when Victor breaks away to breathe, kissing at Yuuri’s jaw instead, bracing one hand next to Yuuri’s head. Yuuri catches his hand, lacing their fingers together. Victor’s heart pounds at the gesture. 

Victor breaks away first, enjoying the sight of Yuuri, flushed and breathing hard as if he had been running.

“I have to go home. Yuri needs me,” he says more as a reminder to himself. 

Yuuri nods, smiling. “Yes. You do.”

Victor dips forward once more to kiss him once more, a seal of their time more than anything else. He untangles himself then, running a hand through his hair to make himself look somewhat presentable. 

“ _ Dermo, _ ” he says, trying to make his hair lie flat. Yuuri giggles, trying to do the same with his own. “We are not presentable for society.”

Yuuri shrugs, starting to walk down the hallways towards the doors. Victor trots to catch up. 

“Can I walk you home?”

Yuuri nods, and they walk out into the misty night air together. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little late posting this week, so have a 10k chapter to make up for it!
> 
> Our boys are starting to work things out, I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr! destielpasta.tumblr.com


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry there has been such a long wait for this! Hopefully the amount of fluff in this chapter makes up for it. Warnings for sexual content in this chapter.

 

Victor sees Yuuri on and off in the next few days when he’s at the rink, texting in the inbetween hours. 

_ What is your favorite food? _

He learns Yuuri often doesn’t text back for a few hours, and when he does his answers are simple and self-conscious, as if he had stared at the words and edited them into oblivion. 

_ Katsudon. It’s a fried pork cutlet bowl. My mother makes it the best. _

He manages to get a gleeful Phichit to divulge Yuuri’s coveted snapchat handle, and that opens new doors. He sends Yuuri pictures of Yuri crawling, pictures of the rink on days he isn’t there, and sometimes flirtatious pictures of himself–  fully clothed of course. Yuuri tends to be a little more spontaneous this way, responding with mostly candids of Phichit in various states of chewing or talking, and captioned with his reactions. Victor finds himself laughing more.

He treasures any bit of information he can get about Yuuri, but he really blossoms when Victor can get him in person.

The utility closet outside of the locker room being one such place.

“Yuuri–   _ Yuuri–” _

Yuuri’s hand smoothes down the small of his back, dipping lower to squeeze Victor’s ass, kissing down his jaw. Victor gasps again when he runs his teeth over the sensitive skin covering his pulse point. A metal shelving unit digs into his back but he doesn’t care because the line of Yuuri’s body is pressed along his, soft along the slope of his hips and hard and lean at his waist where Victor moves his hands up and down. 

Yuuri is a very good kisser, and kissing Yuuri quickly becomes Victor’s new favorite hobby. He’s handsy, and thorough despite his shyness in other social areas. He sinks one hand into Yuuri’s hair, pulling slightly to get Yuuri’s mouth back up to his. Yuuri’s lips are chapped like his, but soften under Victor’s ministrations. He moans when Victor sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, the vibrations shooting right to his groin. 

“I believe–” Victor gasps as Yuuri dips a hand underneath his lycra undershirt. “I believe I had promised you dinner.”

“Mmm,” Yuuri hums. “I think I remember something like that. Or we could just stay here forever.”

Victor hisses as Yuuri’s thumb brushes over a sensitive nipple, his shirt rucked up to his collarbones now. Yuuri’s lips are wet as he presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“No fair. I’m trying to be a gentleman– and you are a  _ distraction _ Katsuki Yuuri.”

Yuuri laughs at that, his breath warm against Victor’s face. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well,” Yuuri starts kissing down his neck again. “There’s a place near the rink. It’s–” Yuuri runs a hand over his ass, slipping it into his back pocket. “It’s Italian. Or Greek? Maybe Greek.”

“When?” Yuuri asks, his voice beautifully muffled against Victor’s shoulder.

“Mila told me she’s free–   _ ah _ –” Yuuri slips a leg between his, knee grazing his groin. “Thursday! Yes. Thursday night.”

“Sounds good.”

Victor pulls Yuuri back up for a kiss, throwing his arms around his neck. He rides slightly along the line of Yuuri’s leg, moaning deep in his throat from the release in pressure. When they break apart Yuuri’s pupils are blown wide, lips parted. 

“Your class,” he says.

Victor sighs in frustration, the ancient wall clock behind him only giving him five minutes to get his skates on and get on the ice to meet the novice class. He turns back to Yuuri. For all his confidence earlier, he’s sinking back into embarrassed sheepishness as he takes in the scene they’ve made. 

Victor takes his chin between his fingers, pulling him back in for a soft kiss to reassure him. 

“Thursday?” he asks when he pulls away, stroking Yuuri’s hair back. 

Yuuri nods, his smile returning.

“Thursday.”

Victor works hard the next few days, barely seeing Yuuri  _ or _ Yuri since he picks up extra hours at the restaurant to make up for his night off coming up. He makes reservations at the Italian place, looking forward to see Yuuri again with nervous anticipation. 

When Thursday rolls around he gets up like normal, cleaning up the apartment from days of barely being home. He checks on Yuri, finding him still sound asleep and decides to let him sleep in a bit, but when nine o’clock rolls around he starts to get concerned, parting the curtain to Yuri’s room and approaching his crib. 

Yuri is still sleeping, but his tiny fists are balled up against his chest and his face is set in a grimace. He bends down to pick him up and check his diaper when he feels how hot Yuri is, his stomach dropping to his toes. Yuri snuggles up against him as soon as he picks him up, trembling from chills. Victor rests the back of his hand against his forehead. He’s definitely warm. 

He swears under his breath and carries Yuri over to the changing table. He changes his diaper like normal, figuring that he wouldn’t want to be sick  _ and _ a mess, but once he has Yuri buttoned up into fresh clothes he tries to remember what he did last time Yuri was sick.

_ Thermometer, _ he thinks quickly, setting Yuri gently back down into the crib. He rummages through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, finding the thermometer behind a bottle of painkillers. 

_ 100 _ , the thermometer reads. Not too bad. Could just be a virus that would blow over in a night. But still…

He sighs, making sure Yuri is comfortable before grabbing his phone off of the changing table. With a frown he types out a message to Yuuri explaining that Yuri is sick, and that he would have to reschedule. 

Three dots immediately indicate that Yuuri is typing, but they disappear and reappear three times before Yuuri's message pops up on his screen. 

_ What will you do for dinner?  _

Victor's eyebrows furrow. He gives it a few honest thoughts; there might be some meat in the fridge. He types out a new message. 

_ I don't know. I'll manage though! I'm sorry to reschedule. I was looking forward to seeing you.  _

Again, Yuuri seems to deliberate over his answer. But finally, it arrives. 

_ I can cook for you.  _

_ And keep you company.  _

_ While you take care of Yuri.  _

Victor worries at his bottom lip. He types out his next text quickly, stalling. 

_ What's for dinner?  _

Yuuri's answer comes immediately. 

_ It's a surprise.  _

_ Should I come? _

Victor fidgets, reaching down to lay a hand on Yuri’s forehead. He doesn't seem to be getting worse. 

_ Yes.  _

Victor deposits his phone on the table, ignoring the swarm of butterflies erupting in his stomach. He and Yuuri had only seen each other at the rink for the past week or so, making eyes at each other while Yakov had his back turned and stealing moments in the supply closets. The last time Yuuri had been  _ here _ –  

Victor blushes at the memory. 

His phone buzzes again.  _ Seven ok? _

Victor types out his assent, wondering how the hell he was supposed to spend a whole day waiting.

The day passes quickly, but not quickly enough. Victor borrows Maria’s vacuum again and cleans the whole apartment, folding and putting away all his laundry. He monitors Yuri’s fever by the hour, and uploads a new selfie to instagram. Six o’clock rolls around, then six-thirty, and Victor starts to feel nervous. 

Feeling like he should at least have a beverage to offer Yuuri, he rises and sets the tea kettle in the sink to start filling it. Just because Yuuri was coming over didn’t mean he expected anything physical to happen. He’s making him dinner. Keeping him company. 

He remembers the taste of Yuuri’s skin and sloshes water all over the floor. 

“Shit.” He cleans up the water, getting the knees of his pants wet in the process. “ _ Shit.” _

He stumbles over to the chest of drawers, unbuttoning his pants along the way. He pulls out a fresh pair and shucks the old ones just as Yuri starts to fuss from the side room. He walks barefooted over to him, reaching into the crib to smooth his hair back from his forehead and feel if the fever had gotten worse. Yuri grabs his wrist, papery nails in need of a trim leaving small scratches in their wake. 

Yuri’s fever seems the same, but at least he’s sleeping even if it’s fitful. His hands drop to rest by his head, the picture of innocence. He takes his temperature again just to be sure, the thermometer still reading one hundred degrees. He gives him a small dose of baby ibuprofen. 

Just as he’s shaking out the thermometer, there’s a soft knock at the door. 

Victor swears again, realizing he’s still standing in his underwear and bare feet. He practically jumps into a pair of jeans and forgoes the socks altogether as he jogs over to the door. 

Yuuri stands there, flushed from the humidity and holding a paper bag stuffed with groceries close to his torso. 

He smiles. 

“Hi,” Victor says stupidly. He all but lunges forward, taking the bag from Yuuri’s hands with aggressive politeness. “Come in.”

“How’s Yuri?” Yuuri asks as he toes off his worn sneakers.

“Good, I think,” Victor says. “His fever hasn’t gotten any worse.”

“That’s good to hear. Is he sleeping?”

“Yes.” Victor beckons Yuuri into the kitchen. He laughs nervously as he follows.

“What’s so funny?” Victor asks, smiling over his shoulder as he sets the bag of groceries on the counter. 

“Nothing,” Yuuri answers quickly, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. “Well, it’s just–  I almost forgot where you lived. I might have taken the wrong train. Twice.”

Victor laughs. Not so much at what Yuuri said, but at the dichotomy of the man who shoved him into a broom closet earlier in the week to have his way with him to the man shyly fidgeting in his kitchen. 

“I’m glad you found me. What did you bring?” Victor asks as he unloads a few unfamiliar ingredients. 

“Well,” Yuuri starts, fiddling with the knobs on Victor’s stove. “I thought I would make you katsudon.”

“Really?”

“It won’t be as good as my mother’s,” Yuuri says quickly. “But I’ve made it for Phichit in Detroit a few times so it should be close.”

“I’m excited,” Victor says. “Just tell me how to help.”

Yuuri immediately sets him up with chopping onions, a suitably international skill, while he starts to bread and fry the pork. The apartment fills with the smells of frying meat and the warmth from cooking. Victor finds it soothing. His mother had been a good cook before she took sick, something neither his father or Lilia or Yakov could ever replicate. 

He checks on Yuri periodically, and Yuuri follows him a few times, offering input on how hot Yuri’s forehead feels when asked. When Yuri starts to cry an hour in, he stands by supportively while Victor sings to him and bounces him on his hip.

“Do you think he’s getting worse?” Victor asks, the worry thinning his voice.

Yuuri shakes his head, leaning against the doorframe. “I don’t think so. Probably just feels hot. Maybe lighter clothes?”

Victor wonders why he hadn’t thought of that as he lays Yuri out on the changing table to swap out the fleece pajama set for a cotton one. Yuri quiets almost immediately, falling back into a sleep, even if he still is a bit restless. 

“Better, you think?” Yuuri asks nervously, fidgeting with his hands as he looks down at Yuri in his crib. 

Victor smiles at him. “Yes. Thanks for the idea.”

“Oh. Yeah. No problem,” he fumbles. “I better check on the food.

Yuuri turns on his heel and walks back into the kitchen, leaving Victor with a very full heart.  Yuuri is earnest, and kind in an unassuming way, and he finds himself overwhelmed by more than just the delicious smells when he walks back into the kitchen. 

“Did the onions get to you?” Yuuri asks while he checks on the rice, looking over his shoulder.

Victor swipes at his eyes, blinking rapidly to get rid of the damning moisture. “Oh–  yeah. Must have.”

“Here–” Yuuri wets a clean washcloth in the sink and stands on his tiptoes to dab at Victor’s eyes. Victor’s heart thuds against his ribs. He’s so close that the threads of Yuuri’s shirt catch on his own. Yuuri smells like spiced body spray and delicious food currently cooking on the stove. This is the first time that they are together in Victor’s home with no misconceptions about what they mean to each other. Yuuri’s ministrations are soft and when he’s done he backs away with a knowing smile. 

“Better?” he asks, echoing his question before in Yuri’s room.

Victor nods, speechless. Yuuri goes back to cooking with a little sway to his hips. 

“What do you usually eat?”

Victor sits down at the table, relieved to be on a neutral topic. “Well, a woman named Anna watches Yuuri when I’m on nights, and she usually makes something out of whatever I have in the fridge. Or I get something on the street. Sometimes I make a big pot of soup on weekends to get me through the week. Yuri’s diet isn’t too complicated yet so I usually just scavenge around for myself.”

He just shrugs it off, but Yuuri whips around, horrified.

“Scavenge? You’re an athlete!”

Victor laughs. “Only barely at the moment.”

Yuuri shakes his head, but doesn’t comment on Victor’s self-depreciation. “Food is important at home. My parents cook all traditional food at their Inn. It’s how I learned.”

His face reddens, as if embarrassed that he shared something like that. Victor wants to take his face between his hands and assure him that whatever he has to say, Victor wants to know. 

He tries with words instead. “What do your parents think of you being so far away?”

Yuuri turns away, stirring a sauce reducing in a shallow pan. “Well. We talk a lot. Though probably not as much as we should. They’ve always supported me, but I don’t think they understand, really. Sometimes I think they’re relieved to be far away from something so unpredictable as their figure skating son.”

Victor nods. “I can understand that. Even though I doubt it’s true.”

Yuuri shrugs. “It’s what I feel, either way.”

Victor opens his mouth to comment further but Yuuri cuts him off. 

  
“Where are your bowls? This is just about ready.”

Victor gets up to help and Yuuri serves him a steaming bowl of heaven, all beautiful pork cutlet wrapped in velvety looking egg. He tries to recall the last time he had eaten a proper meal and comes up short. 

He nearly perishes on the spot when he takes his first bite.

“Vkusno…” he says around a moan. 

Yuuri chuckles, and Victor is so busy digging into the delicious bowl of food that he only notices Yuuri, leaning against the stove and staring at him, when he looks up. 

He wipes his mouth with a nearby napkin. 

“Aren't you going to eat?”

Yuuri blanches, “Well, technically I'm in official training now. Can't be eating katsudon.”

Victor leans back on the spindly chair legs, knowing his smile looks wolfish. 

“Yuuuuuri,” he drawls. “But you made enough for two.”

Yuuri tips his head back and closes his eyes, as if begging to a higher power for strength. “I know. I think I did it subconsciously.”

“But you  _ must. _ You’re a guest here.”

Yuuri laughs. “I’m only supposed to eat it when I win a competition.”

Victor bites his top lip, deliberating.

“Well, next time you win, you’ll just have to eat something else. That’ll even it out.”

Yuuri purses his lips, pressuring building up before he seems to burst. Victor almost whoops in victory when Yuuri turns around to fix himself a plate. 

“You need calories,” he says when Yuuri sits down next to him.

“Yes, but probably not  _ these _ calories.”

“Delicious, delicious calories.”

Victor sneaks glances at Yuuri while they eat, scraping the bottom of the bowl once he’s done for any morsel left. He checks on Yuuri a few more times while they eat, taking Yuuri by the hand after they’re both done and pulling him towards Yuri’s room to check on him again. 

When he lays a hand on Yuri’s forehead he finds it damp and cool. He sighs with relief. 

“Fever’s broken.”

Yuuri smiles; it’s bright in the dim room. “That’s good.”

“He’ll sleep now.” Victor bends down to place a kiss to Yuri’s forehead, silently beckoning Yuuri back out in the main room once he straightens. 

“Tea?”

Yuuri nods. “Sure.”

Victor makes them two cups from the concentrate he made the other day, stopping the tea kettle just before it begins whistling from fear of waking Yuri up. He reaches for the poodle mug for Yuuri, bringing the steaming mugs into the living room to join Yuuri on the couch.

“Thank you,” Yuuri says as he takes the mug. 

They settle back against the cushions, sipping their tea and becoming increasingly close. Victor sits against the armrest, and Yuuri starts off on the other end, migrating over until his knees are tucked to the side and he leans his head against Victor’s shoulder, aimlessly scrolling through his phone. It all feels startlingly domestic, and Victor can’t help but snake an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder, holding him close.  

Yuuri deposits his phone onto the coffee table after a few minutes, leaning into Victor’s shoulder. 

“How old is Yuri?” he asks.

Victor calculates in his head. “Well, almost seven months now. Next week.”

“So–” Yuuri stops abruptly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Yuuri.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“He was two weeks old,” Victor says, knowing what Yuuri was looking for. “In the accident.”

Yuuri turns to look up at him, horrified.

“I’m sorry–”

Victor squeezes his shoulder, silencing him. “It’s ok. I–  well, I guess I’ve felt like I could tell you things from the beginning.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows dip. “Why?”

Victor thinks on it for a moment. “I guess, you were the only person who didn’t want something from me. Lilia and Yakov want me to be their star. They wanted to take care of Yuri even though Elena wanted him with me. They think I’m wasting something since I survived the accident. And Mila wants me to be… well, Elena.”

“Victor,” Yuuri says, weighing his words carefully. “Do you really believe that?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. Have you ever had friends where you’re only connected through another friend?”

Yuuri thinks. “I think so. Phichit has a lot of friends in Detroit that aren’t really my friends, unless he’s around.”

“That was my friendship with Mila before the accident. Once Elena was gone, we had to become friends ourselves–  and don’t get me wrong she has helped me more than anyone, but sometimes I wonder if she just wants Elena through me.”

“Do you want Elena through her?”

Yuuri does ask the tough questions, and Victor takes a minute to deliberate. 

“I don’t know. They are not very alike. Elena was headstrong and fearless, to a fault. Mila is cautious and looks before she leaps.”

Yuuri nods, settling back against Victor’s shoulder. The clock ticks from the kitchen, and the world outside is quiet even through the open window. He doesn’t have a television, has nothing stronger than tea or more exciting than cheap vodka to offer Yuuri to drink. He wonders if Yuuri has dozed off when he speaks up again. 

“I want you for you, Victor.”

Victor laughs softly, pushing a stray strand of hair away from Yuuri’s face. “I know. I like that very much about you.”

“Do you?” Yuuri retorts. He sits up, Victor’s arm sliding away from his shoulder. “It’s only been a few weeks–  I wonder–  I wonder if you understand what I mean. Or want to understand.”

“I would if you would speak words, Yuuri.”

Yuuri laughs, looking down. He wrings his hands, standing up and placing his them on his hips. Victor folds his hands in front of him, waiting for him to turn around and speak. 

“It’s like–  sometimes I think you look at me like I’m going to disappear, or like something that you know will be here for a while before I’m gone.”

“Well,” Victor starts. “Am I wrong for wondering that?”

Yuuri turns around, throwing his hands in front of him. “No! No, you’re not. I get it. I get that I came here for a summer program and that makes it seems like I will leave. But.”

“But?”

“But,” Yuuri asserts. He’s the most animated Victor has ever seen him, appearing like he could crawl out of his skin from the slightest provocation. 

“But,” he repeats. “I don’t want to leave. I already feel like I never want to leave. Because of you.”

Victor laces his fingers together. “Yuuri…”

Yuuri wrings his hands again. “I know! I know that I shouldn’t feel that way yet. I know it’s too soon, and you probably don’t feel the same way.”

“Yuuri!” Victor stands, stilling Yuuri’s hands by taking them between his own. “Can I speak?”

Yuuri blushes down to his collar, and nods, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“I wish you wouldn’t apologize for the way you feel,” he says quietly. “I don’t understand why you say it as if I couldn’t possibly be feeling the same way.”

Yuuri’s mouth pops open. “Oh. Ok. I see.”

Victor nods, smiling. He tightens his hold on Yuuri’s hands. 

“My fears come from what comes with me. I have baggage I don’t even want to unpack, and I’m a package deal with Yuri. I’m already–  I wish I could find the English to explain it.”

Yuuri waits patiently while he finds the words. He takes a deep breath before starting again.

“I’m already a home, with everything that comes with it. You might want to build your own home someday, with someone who doesn’t have all of this already. Someone who has it all more together than I do.”

Yuuri nods. “I understand, but what if you’re still the one I want? With all the baggage, anyway?”

Victor shrugs. “I would have no choice but to believe you. I have no willpower when it comes to you anyway, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s face finally cracks into a smile, and it sets Victor’s heart racing. He rests a hand on Yuuri’s face.

“And even if I did, I would choose to be here.”

Yuuri reaches up, covering his hand with his own. His smile slowly disappears. 

“Victor.”

He’ll never get tired of the way Yuuri says his name. Slowly, as if he’s testing out the way it feels in his mouth, with a turn up at the end as if he’s asking a question. Victor dips down, brushing their lips together. They kiss slowly for a while, the stillness enveloping the moment until Victor feels dizzy with it. 

He runs his hands down Yuuri’s arms, steering him to the couch. He breaks the kiss only to lower them both down. Yuuri sighs when Victor resumes kissing him, leaning on his elbows. Yuuri runs his hands down Victor’s back, tipping his head back to let Victor deepen the kiss. Victor’s heart pounds against his ribs, and Yuuri’s hands slip underneath his shirt. He breaks away and kisses down Yuuri’s neck. 

Yuuri is  _ definitely _ sensitive there, moaning and wrapping his legs around Victor’s hips. He rucks up Victor’s shirt and Victor sits up to pull it all the way off. 

“Is this ok?” Victor asks while kissing Yuuri’s jaw. 

“Yes,” Yuuri says, sitting up slightly to pull off his own shirt. “Very ok.”

Victor laughs, smiling while kissing Yuuri back onto the cushions. Yuuri is in better shape than most of the world’s population, of course, but underneath that he’s all soft skin and rounded edges where is counts. He runs a hand down his chest, fingers finding the outlines of his ribs before settling on the curve of his waist. Yuuri’s hands knead into his back, urging him closer. His mouth opens, and Victor can taste him; the subtle flavors of katsudon mixed with the spice of the Russian tea Victor had made them, blended with Yuuri–  all Yuuri. 

Yuuri rolls his hips up once, just a graze of their clothed groins together, but Victor can feel how hard he is. He breaks away, bearing his hips down with intention, gazing into Yuuri’s eyes as the wave of pleasure rolls over him. Yuuri’s hand comes up to cradle his face, and Victor’s covers it as they move in together, enjoying the way their motions make his toes curl and Yuuri moan from deep in his chest. 

“Victor–  Victor  _ ah _ –”

Victor kisses him, messy and without finesse, but Yuuri only clings to him harder, licking into his mouth and biting his lower lip. Victor wants to give him more, realizing almost too late through the fog of euphoria, and he breaks away. 

Yuuri’s eyes widen, as if he had done something young, and Victor seeks to put him at ease. 

“Sit up,  _ dorogoi _ , I want to try something.”

Yuuri’s eyebrows knit together but he obliges, bracing his hands on the couch and pushing himself up into a sitting position. This puts Victor at about his bellybutton, and he smiles when Yuuri’s eyes widen. 

“Victor.”

Victor lays a hand on the waistband of Yuuri’s jeans, fingertips delicately tracing the inner seam. Yuuri shivers.

“Will you let me, Yuuri?” 

Yuuri takes a deep breath, smoothing Victor’s hair back from his forehead. It’s a tender movement, and Victor leans into it. Yuuri nods.

Victor smiles, preening a little when Yuuri’s hand doesn’t leave his head but instead continues to pet through his hair. His hands shake enough that undoing the double button enclosure of Yuuri’s pants is akin to performing a quadruple jump in his tennis shoes. He finally succeeds, pushing down on Yuuri’s waistband and indicating for Yuuri to lift his hips to help. He does, and Victor manages to push them down to Yuuri’s knees before surging back up to kiss the soft skin at Yuuri’s hip-bones.

Yuuri sighs, carding his fingers through Victor’s hair as his mouth draws nearer to his cock. Victor moves lower, kissing the inside of his thighs and working his way up. Objectively, he knows this would be easier if he got Yuuri’s pants all way the off, but his knees are already bracketing Victor’s head and Victor’s hands are already wrapped around the base of his cock, taking the tip into his mouth. 

Yuuri is so,  _ so _ responsive, arching his back and tugging gently on Victor’s hair. Victor takes it as encouragement, bracing an arm over Yuuri’s hips and taking him in deeper, loving the feeling of him coming undone in his mouth. He bobs his head up and down, working him up to the point where Yuuri is panting above him. 

“Victor–   _ Victor–  _  I’m close. I’m gonna–”

The hands in his hair become frantic, and Victor pulls off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looks up through his eyelashes at Yuuri, breathing hard with his hair a mess from the pillow. 

“Do you want to come in my mouth?” Victor asks, blushing hard at his own words but holding his gaze with Yuuri’s.

Yuuri’s eyes widen at the question. “Are you sure?”

He smiles. “I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t sure.”

Yuuri looks unsure for a moment, but then he nods, relaxing back onto the cushions. Victor returns to his neglected cock, sucking on the head and slowly taking the length into his mouth. Yuuri had been close to edge before, but it would take a minute to get him back there. He swallows, feeling Yuuri jerk under him from the moment of suction. He starts to move faster again, Yuuri’s breathing picking up and his hand tightening in his hair. 

He comes, and Victor does his best to swallow through it. Granted, it’s been some time since he’s done this. Yuuri begins to twitch from overstimulation, and he pulls off of him, catching his breath while leaning his forehead against Yuuri’s hipbone, his hair splayed across Yuuri’s skin.

He’s about to look up and check on Yuuri when hands suddenly push on his shoulders, tackling him backwards and kissing him into the couch cushions. 

It’s a surprise Victor can get behind, and he wraps his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders and kisses him back. He knows the taste of Yuuri is still on his tongue; his lips are numb with it and he wants Yuuri to feel it too. 

“You are,” Yuuri says practically into his mouth. “Incredible.”

Victor hums his appreciation back, realizing he’s almost painfully hard against his still-buttoned pants. He rocks up without thinking about it, riding the line of Yuuri’s thigh. Yuuri kisses his neck, scraping his teeth over the sensitive skin at his pulse point. Victor moans, content to come to this way, with Yuuri’s mouth on his neck and his weight heavy above him. 

Yuuri has other plans, however, reaching down to palm at his cloth-covered erection. Victor bucks up into his hand, the pleasure intense even through his clothes. Yuuri makes quick work of his zipper and button, pushing his pants and boxers down in one motion. Victor watches in a daze as Yuuri licks his own hand, his gaze steadfast. 

He wraps his hand around Victor’s cock and Victor throws his head back, the sensation already too much and not nearly enough all at once. Yuuri pumps his head up and down, twisting slightly at the head and Victor knows he’s not going to last. He meets each movement with a thrust of his hips, the slide of Yuuri’s hand nearly perfect. 

“That’s it,  _ dorogoi _ , ah–  you feel so good–”

“Yeah?”

Yuuri keeps going, dipping his head down to kiss Victor’s chest, trailing his tongue over a sensitive nipple and sending a jolt through him. He sucks lightly, grazing his teeth over it. Victor shivers, feeling almost undone from Yuuri’s mouth and his hand, when he speaks against his chest. 

“Will you come for me, Victor?”

Victor moans.

“Yes,  _ yes _ Yuuri–  God–”

His orgasm rushes through him like a wave, prolonged by the touches of Yuuri’s hand until he is utterly spent, chest heaving and head thrown back against the pillows. He catches his breath, his hand searching out to find Yuuri’s hair. He cards a hand through it, grounding himself. 

Yuuri mumbles something against his chest. 

Victor giggles, the moment somewhat broken. “What was that?”

Yuuri lifts his head, propping his chin against Victor’s sternum. 

“Where are your towels?”

Victor steers him in the right direction and then just enjoys the view when Yuuri stands up, finally removing his pants properly, and walks over to the clean basket of laundry near the door and grabs a washcloth from the top. He wets it at the kitchen sink and then makes his way back over to the couch.

He cleans them both gently, the action surprisingly intimate even though Yuuri avoids his eyes. After he disposes of the cloth in the basket of dirty laundry, he comes back over to the couch where Victor has pulled the blanket down over himself to ward off the night chill. He lifts it up and Yuuri joins him underneath it, pressed close to his side. 

“Victor?”

“Hmm?”

Yuuri’s voice is adorably sleepy. “Do you sleep on this couch?”

Victor chuckles. “No, I don’t sleep on the couch.”

“Ok.”

A beat passes.

“Yuuri?”

“Hmm?”

“The couch pulls out.”

There’s a giant sigh from beside him. “Oh thank God.”

Victor laughs, but regretfully, they have to get up to pull out the sofa bed properly, but once they do they rearrange themselves quite comfortably. Yuuri is a welcome heat against his back, his hand a good weight against his hip. Yuuri murmurs something against his shoulder, his words thick and muffled, but Victor doesn’t catch it. 

 

* * *

 

Victor wakes with a jerk, thinking he had heard Yuri crying. He doesn’t remember his dreams, but Yuri’s sickness from the day before comes rushing back to him. What if his fever had returned in the night and Victor had slept through his cries? He reaches out, finding the area next to him empty but still warm. He rubs his eyes, his waking mind realizing that the apartment is silent save for a low humming coming from the kitchen. 

He bites his lip, recognizing the timbre of the hum. Sitting up, he lets the sheets fall away from him, the air already heating up with the day’s coming humidity. 

Yuuri stands in front of the sink, his arms cradling a slightly squirming Yuri who’s reaching for his bottle. Yuuri smiles, letting him have it and rocking him gently while he drinks. 

Victor swallows. Yellow summer sunlight filters in through the blinds, creating long lines of dust-swirling light that shines off of Yuuri’s hair, reflects off of the corner of his glasses. He shifts, adjusting Yuuri in his arms and continuing his tuneless humming. 

Victor gets up, trying to stay quiet as he grabs a pair of sweatpants off of the floor and shoves his legs into them. He pads quietly over to the kitchen, laying a hand on Yuuri’s arm.

Yuuri half-turns around. “I heard you get up.”

Victor dips down, pressing his lips softly to the skin behind Yuuri’s ear. “Here I thought I was being sneaky.”

Yuuri sighs from the soft touches, incredibly warm and pliant. 

“His fever is gone,” he explains. “I woke up and thought I should check on him– I found the bottle in the fridge. I’m sorry if it was forward of me.”

Victor circles around, bending down to press a kiss to Yuri’s forehead as he drinks. 

“You did exactly the right thing.” He brushes Yuri’s hair back from his forehead. “Feeling better, Yuratchka?”

Yuri finishes his bottle by way of answer, and Victor takes it and sets it on the counter, taking him from Yuuri and balancing him on his hip. He plays with ends of Victor’s fringe, seemingly content. 

“All better,” Victor mutters, bouncing him lightly.

“Victor…” Yuuri says, his fingers rising to brush down Victor’s arm. Light, as if he were glass. 

Victor smiles, dipping forward and meeting Yuuri’s lips in a slow kiss. Yuuri squeezes his arm, exhaling into it with the barest hint of a shiver.

When he pulls back, Yuuri’s eyes are shining. 

“Good morning.”

Yuuri smiles, pecking him lightly on the cheek before side-stepping him. Victor turns around, watching in amusement as he fiddles with his tea kettle. He almost doesn’t hear what Yuuri says, low and almost like an afterthought. 

“One of the best.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! This is the end of part 1, next we get into the competitive season!
> 
> Come yell at me on tumblr: destielpasta.tumblr.com


	8. Chapter 8

Victor arrives early to the rink on the last night of Yakov’s summer camp.

He sneaks in with his head down, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t go to the locker room or to the bench by the rink entrance, as would be his normal routine, but to the empty stands, picking a spot to sit in the front row.

The normal gaggle of international skaters line the rink barrier, their phones out and obviously ready to record something big. Victor picks out Phichit’s head among them. At center rink, of course, is Yuuri. 

Victor smiles without thinking about it, enjoying the look of fierce determination on Yuuri’s face as Yakov explains something to him. He nods, and nods again, but Victor knows the face of an athlete completely inside their own head, deaf to the world. 

With one last word, Yuuri takes off, skating a few laps around the rink. Victor leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. Yuuri does a few crossovers to pick up speed.

Victor recognizes the prep like an old friend. Then Yuuri soars through the air, rotating four times before landing without so much as a wobbly ankle.

Victor leaps to his feet, his hands up and his heart racing.

“Yuuri!”

 

* * *

 

**_March 30, 2016_ **

_ “Elena!” Victor yells in exultation, waving his phone around despite the fact that Elena had forbidden him from filming anything. “Do it again!” _

_ She smiles coyly from the center of the rink, lapsing into a sloppy layback to ignore him.  _

_ “Elena… I want to see it again!” He throws up his hands. “When did you have time to learn this? Does Yakov know?” _

_ Elena laughs, coming out of the spin and skating over to him by the barrier. “No, and he won’t know until I can make it more consistent.” _

_ “Huh. That seems like the opposite way you should handle things.” _

_ “Don’t boss me around.” _

_ “Just one more for me, then?” Victor pleads, clasping his hands in front of him and dropping to one knee on the cold ice. _

_ “I don’t know if I can, Vitya, one per customer, ok?” _

_ Victor pouts. She rolls her eyes.  _

_ “Ok. Once more. But only because you’re so pitiful.” _

_ Victor shoots up immediately. “Let me film this one!” _

_ Elena starts skating, picking up speed around the rink.  _

_ “Absolutely not! The last thing I need is for you to have filmed footage of me falling on my ass!” _

_ Victor snickers to himself, settling back against the boards as Elena starts to prep the jump.  _

_ Even though he has been watching and completing figure skating jumps himself since he could walk a straight line, it still astounds him to watch Elena as her arms rise and her left leg swings back, picking into the ice–  _

_ Four rotations. Four indisputable rotations.  _

_ Victor surges away from the barrier to meet her at center ice, throwing his arms around her shoulders and pulling her close. Their skates clink together. Her hair smells like ice and sweat. She holds on tight, her arms his middle.  _

_ After a moment, when she has still not let go of him, Victor feels her breath hitch.  _

_ “Vitya,” she whispers against his warm-up jacket, “He’s gone. He’s really gone this time.” _

_ Victor scowls. He doesn’t have to ask who.  _

_ “Andrei doesn’t deserve you.” _

_ She releases him, all the happiness from her successful quadruple toe-loop gone with the mention of his name. _

_ “He doesn’t, Elena,” he repeats, wringing his hands. _

_ She nods, wiping her eyes with the back of her sleeve. Her eyes are hollow when she looks back at him. She reaches down, taking his hand and lacing their fingers together.  _

_ “I took a pregnancy test the yesterday.” _

_ Victor squeezes her hand, his eyes widening.  _

_ “I need your help, Vitya.” _

 

* * *

 

Despite the cold of the rink, Yuuri’s arms around him are warm when Victor finally slides onto the ice in his street shoes to embrace him. He’s a few centimeters taller than Victor with his skates on. The sounds of the other skaters shouting their congratulations and making their way off of the rink fade away as Yuuri buries his head in his hair. 

“I think I like being taller that you.”

Victor shoves him playfully with his shoulder. “Wait until I get my skates, Mr. quad flip.”

“I can’t believe you saw that,” Yuuri says, doubt coloring his tone slightly. 

Victor backs away slightly, looking at him. “Why? It was amazing!”

Yuuri shakes his head. “It was so sloppy! Nothing compared to yours!”

Victor takes Yuuri’s face between his hands, meeting his eyes. Yuuri tries to keep a straight face, but the smile at the corners of his mouth betray him.

“You absolute–” Victor laughs, “False modesty does nothing for you,  _ zoloste _ .”

Yuuri blushes, still unused to the new name Victor had taken to calling him in recent days. 

They laugh until Victor realizes his sneakers are getting soaked by the shaved ice under his feet. He returns to the sidelines to change into his skates, his novice class due to arrive in about a half hour. Yuuri doesn’t leave the ice, skating crystal clean figures until Victor skates out to grab his hand. 

He can’t help it. The rink is a safe spot he knows, but they should still be discreet. To protect Yuri, if nothing else, but the rink is quiet and nearly empty as the rest of the international students file out for one last night on the town in St. Petersburg before boarding their flights home tomorrow. 

Yuuri laces his fingers together with his. 

“I promised Phichit I would go out with him tonight. I won’t see him again until the Cup of China.”

They skate lazily, Victor moving backwards with their joined hand between them. “Of course you are. Tell me if you dance with anyone interesting,” He says with a wink. 

Yuuri smirks, shaking his head. “No dancing tonight. Yakov said it would be nothing but jumps tomorrow.”

“How unhealthily typical of him.”

Yuuri’s smile disappears. “He talks about you a lot.  _ Vitya does it like this  _ and things like that.”

Victor squeezes. “The skater he knew is the stuff of imagination now.”

“Victor–”

“Come on!” Victor cuts him off, not wanting this subject to ruin his good mood. “Skate for me. You’ve been working on your free program, yes?”

Yuuri looks like he wants to pursue the subject of Yakov further, but only sighs, giving in to Victor’s diversion. “Somewhat. I met with the choreographer yesterday.”

Victor perks up. “Who was it? Maria? Sasha?”

Yuuri squints. “I didn’t catch it.”

Victor laughs. “So observant, my Yuuri.”

Yuuri blushes again, dropping his hand and skating away with a pleased smile on his face. Victor feels warm as well, just under the collar.  _ His _ Yuuri, indeed. 

He leans against the barrier to take in Yuuri’s skating. He starts with a slow unfolding, just easing into the movements, like a slow start to the  [ music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6QkB3K4ZIEI) that would accompany him. They had listened to it the night before, sharing earbuds on Victor’s couch while Yuri slept against his shoulder. 

“Do you think it’s too understated? Yakov thought it was a good contrast to my program last year,” Yuuri had asked.

“It’s lovely! It suits you,” Victor had said, kissing his forehead.

It hadn’t been a total lie; the song is tender and beautiful, showing off the emotional side of Yuuri’s skating, but lacks the singular large climax often needed to make programs like it work. He shakes off the thought as Yuuri leaps into a beautiful triple axel out of a spread eagle. If anyone can pull it off, it’s Yuuri. But there are moments where the skating is a bit too two-footed, where Yuuri’s potential isn’t quite taken advantage of. Maybe a counter here, followed by a rocker on the other foot–

“What do you think?” Yuuri asks once he’s come out of his final stance, his face shining from exertion. 

Victor pauses before answering. 

“You hate it.” Yuuri says a moment later, his face falling. 

Victor throws his hands up. “I didn’t say that! Yuuri…”

Yuuri puts his hands on his hips, looking slightly embarrassed from his outburst, as if to say  _ go on, do your worst.  _

Victor presses a finger to his lips, thinking. “Just humor me, maybe if you add a Choctaw to the middle of your step sequence…”

A few minutes later, Yuuri’s step sequence is better, but still isn’t taking advantage of his full range of strengths. Victor makes a mental note to talk to Yuuri’s choreographer about it while his novice students are starting to arrive. It would only take a few basic changes to take it to the next level–  

“Victor Ivanovich!”

Galina is already on the ice, skating over to where he and Yuuri stand innocently at center rink, a sly smile on her face.

“Galya,” Victor says, mock serious, “You look like the cat who just swallowed the mouse.”

She sets her hands on her hips. “Where’s your baby?”

Victor sighs, smiling fondly if somewhat impatiently. Galina had taken to asking after Yuri since he had brought him to the rink all those weeks ago. He didn’t mind it, per say, but it did set them on a dangerous course of questioning, especially in front of his students’ parents. But now, in the isolation of the rink, he figures they’re safe. 

“He’s home, where he belongs. A skating rink is no place for a baby.” He smiles, catching Yuuri’s amused glanced out of the corner of his eye. “Unless that baby is about to start her junior season.”

She makes a face. “Ugh!” She skates away, muttering something that sounds like “Silly old man” under her breath. 

Victor turns back toward Yuuri. “Have fun tonight. Tell Phichit good luck from me.”

“I will.” Yuuri smiles, skating as close as he could while parents and young skaters flood the rink. 

Their fingers brush when Yuuri skates away. Victor watches him go, wondering what he did to suddenly be so lucky when he spots a lackluster double salchow out of the corner of his eye.

“Rosa, I told you you need to start putting that in combination–”

He gives out a few snappish comments, but mostly he sticks to praise and reminiscing with his novices. In a few days they would start their official training for their debut junior seasons with Yakov. Some of them would be starting homeschooling, leaving behind the days of grammar school and entering the high pressure world of international athleticism. 

He clenches his teeth while watching Galina execute the closing combination spin to her routine. 

She looks up, blowing a stray hair out of her face with a puff of breath. 

“How was that?”

He smiles, shaking off the uneasy feeling. 

“Good, Galya. Now, again.”

The rest of the class passes quickly, and by the time he’s locking the rink doors and sitting down on the bench to pull off his skates, a pointed pair of black boots appears in his line of vision. 

“Hi Lilia,” Victor says without looking up, pointedly unlacing his skates at the pace of death. 

“Victor.”

They hadn’t spoken since the day when she had called to tell him his spot was filled by none other than Yuuri, and Victor hadn’t gone out of his way to interact with her or Yakov since then. 

“I see you and Katsuki are getting along.”

“It won’t affect his performance in ballet.”

“I wasn’t–” she stops, her voice uncharacteristically shaky. “How’s Yuri?”

It comes out less of a question and more like statement, and Victor wonders if she’s even expecting an answer. 

He sighs, looking up through his lashes to find her standing with her arms crossed. “Good. Chewing everything.”

She nods, too incredibly stern about the slightly humorous information. 

“Elena’s aunt called me the other day. To ask if you needed anything. For Yuri.”

Elena’s aunt was her only surviving family, the woman who had paid for Elena’s skating before she had found success at the Olympics. Victor bites his bottom lip, thinking of the rent that would be due again in two weeks. 

“We’re fine. He’s fine. I’ll talk to you later, Lilia.”

He stands up, already a few feet away by the time he hears the sound of her heels walking in the opposite direction. 

 

* * *

 

On July 15, a Tuesday, Yakov gives Yuuri three days off due to a suspiciously wobbly ankle. Victor worries, especially when Yuuri spends most of that time nervously practicing pirouettes in the middle of his apartment. 

“I need to at least get cross-training in,” Yuuri says mid-turn, as if he could sense Victor’s nerves from where was cleaning a bottle at the sink. 

“Ballet is hardly cross-training.”

“It is when I’m not allowed near the rink and Yakov will kill me if he sees me out running.”

Victor dries his hand with a towel, watching as Yuuri uses the washing machine as a barre to help himself into a beautiful stationary arabesque. Yuri watches from his new favorite area under the coffee table, two fingers stuffed into his mouth and his eyes intent. 

Victor can’t blame him, the seconds turning into minutes as he watches Yuuri adjust his positions. He lengthens his neck on the arabesque. Firms up his pasé on the double pirouette. His hair has grown an inch or so since they had met at the start of June, and it fans out slightly like a halo as he turns. 

He drops onto two feet, shaking out his foot gently. 

“I could–  uh–  use some extra support,” Yuuri says, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Victor nearly drops towel he had forgotten he was holding, tossing it onto the counter and striding across the room. He positions himself behind Yuuri, lining up their feet.

Yuuri’s waist is warm under his hands. The fabric of his shirt slides as Yuuri turns through the pirouette, stopping and fixing his feet before trying again. Victor swallows, the focus of Yuuri’s practice and the flexible line of his body enough to make him a bit warm in the already stuffy apartment. 

Yuuri runs through several basic stationary maneuvers with Victor’s supportive hands on his waist, focusing his work on his good ankle and stretching the other after each movement. Yuri begins to smile and laugh, banging his toy bumblebee on the ground with obvious glee. 

“Seems that you have a fan,” Victor says, resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder after he completed another set of pirouettes. 

“At least I have one,” Yuuri says, smiling through the self-depreciation. “Will you come watch me in China, Yuri?”

Yuri answers with a happy babble, returning his focus to the colorful light-up mat Mila had bought him with her ice-show earnings. 

Yuuri starts to stretch, and Victor returns to the kitchen to start fixing Yuri’s dinner. The orange carrots are bright in the white plastic dish, and he wonders at Yuuri’s invitation to Yuri. Surely Yuuri knew that Victor wouldn’t be able to get the time off to go to Beijing when it came time for the Cup of China. He taps a finger against the counter, the thought making nerves settle in his stomach. 

He looks at Yuuri across the room again; he had begun to work through the off-ice version of his free skate choreography, muttering a bit under his breath. He stops, starting the sequence again. This time, there’s an approximation of a choctaw in the middle of his footwork. 

“You decided to keep it?” Victor asks.

“Mhm,” Yuuri says, not stopping his movements, lost in it. 

Victor shares a smile with himself and the kitchen sink when he turns back to Yuri’s dinner, adding a scoop of mashed peas to the other side of the dish. 

“Victor?” Yuuri calls. “Would you help me again?”

A minute later Victor is supporting Yuuri into various spin positions, helping him build fluidity through each from the camel to the sitting position. Yuuri’s body moves through space so easily, cutting through it as if it were smooth like butter, but light like air. He creates pictures with every movement, putty under Victor’s hands. 

“Why didn’t you stay with ballet?” Victor asks quietly after Yuuri has risen into an arabesque-type spiral position. 

Yuuri drops his foot with a soft  _ thump _ . “I just didn’t. There isn’t really a story there.”

“Are you sure?”

Yuuri sighs, turning around. Victor still holds him by the waist, and he lifts his arms to twine them around Victor’s shoulders. 

“The real reason doesn’t make me look so good,” he says, playing with the hair on the back of Victor’s neck. 

“I always think you look good.” 

Yuuri laughs, shaking his head. 

“No one gets gold medals in ballet.”

Victor smiles wider. “Oh, that just makes me like you even more.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yes.”

Victor dips forward, pulling Yuuri close and kissing him. It’s playful, with a nip to his bottom lip and a peck to the upper. He moves in to kiss him in earnest when he hears a grumble from behind them. 

Yuri stares at them, as if disgusted they had managed to ignore him that long.

“Someone’s hungry.”

They laugh and separate, and Victor swings Yuri up from under the coffee table into his arms. Victor plants a loud kiss to his cheek before depositing him into his high chair, screaming his delight. 

“Mashed carrots, Yuratchka. And it’s not even a special day!”

Yuuri feeds Yuri bites of his food while Victor starts on their dinner, or namely, reheating the stew Anna had cooked the night before while Victor was teaching. Yuuri seems to have developed a taste for hearty Russian food, even though he brings over plainer fare like chicken and broccoli to cook in Victor’s grill pan on nights when he doesn’t want to cheat on his diet. Yuuri’s food has space in the fridge, just like his toothbrush has a space in the bathroom, and a pair of his sweat pants had found their way into Victor’s chest of drawers. 

“Mmmm, yummy yummy carrots. I can’t wait to teach you ballet. Or maybe I’ll just buy you a drum set. Whichever one annoys Victor more.” Yuuri says in his higher pitched tone reserved for Yuri. He glances at Victor, his smile disappearing. “Victor–  what’s wrong?”

Victor realizes he had been staring and probably frowning, his hands braced against the counter. 

“Nothing. Just happy.” He smiles. “That’s all.”

Yuuri smiles, opening his mouth to reply. 

Just then, there’s a knock at the door. 

Victor’s brow furrows. Had Anna gotten the dates mixed up? It wouldn’t be the first time and Victor hated it when she went through so much trouble only to send her away. He strides across the room, throwing the towel in his hand over his shoulder. He’s already talking when he opens the door. 

“Anna, sorry but it’s tomorrow night that I–”

He stops. It’s not Anna. In her place is a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark hair and a crooked nose. His boots are wet, and all Victor can think about is that it hadn’t been raining a moment ago. 

“Victor,” the man says, his voice softer than Victor remembers. “I’m back.”

Victor looks up, his sense of time returning with a rush. He balls his hands into fists by his sides, his too-long nails cutting into his palms. 

“Andrei.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is much shorter than my usual chapters, and with such a cliffhanger. I'm hoping to get back to writing with some sense of normalcy. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with this story, if you are still reading! Comments are love!!


	9. Chapter 9

It’s a grey morning, the kind that lets you know that summer is over. Victor’s mug of tea is already cold against his hand. He taps a fingernail from his other hand against the glass-topped table, watching the man across from him. 

Andrei shifts in his chair. The seat is too small for him. 

“I hope you’ve been well?” He asks, his voice just as grating as Victor remembers. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He all but mutters under his breath, any concrete answer he could give feeling like a weapon, and one that could be used against him. 

Andrei’s chair creaks again, as if he’s sitting back in it. “Thank you for meeting me, anyway. I know showing up at your house unannounced was extremely rude of me.”

_ Thank you for meeting me, anyway _ , Victor mocks in the privacy of his own head, Andrei’s voice turning into a horrible sing-song creation. 

“I know this is a shock, and that my coming here doesn’t make your life any simpler. I’m sure it’s been hard.”

Victor finally looks up, meeting Andrei’s eyes. 

“And why did you come here, Plisetsky?”

Andrei purses his lips at the use of his family name. 

“I had heard Elena was pregnant, last year, but it was playoffs… I guess I didn’t want to believe it.”

“Did you hear that she died as well?”

Andrei grits his teeth inside his mouth. “Of course I did. I had obligations in New York.”

Victor grins, showing his teeth. “Obviously, you are highly-prized in the NHL. How many times have you been traded now?”

Andrei laughs, shaking his head. “I forgot how much you hate me.”’

“Funnily enough, I remember very little about you. I’ve been too busy raising a baby.”

“My son, you mean.”

“I mean no such thing.”

A muscle jumps in Andrei’s jaw and he deflects the statement by reaching into his pocket and pulling out a cigarette. He lights it with a match, and the smell curls around Victor in seconds. 

He wrinkles his nose. “Do the Americans know you smoke?”

“We’re not in America, are we?” Andrei snaps, taking a long drag and looking away to exhale the white smoke.

Victor shakes his head. “There you are. You’ve been too nice. I was wondering when you would show up.”

Andrei taps his cigarette and the ashes fall to the ground. 

“You always wanted to make me a villain, Victor. I couldn’t do anything right in your eyes.”

Victor sees tear tracks, smeared mascara, and Elena’s mother’s dishes smashed on the floor. 

“I only ever remembered how much hurt you could cause, Andrei, when everyone else seemed to forget so quickly.”

He takes another drag. “I never hit her.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Andrei’s jaw tenses, his fingers tight around the cigarette, but then he relaxes. Smiles, as if he’s laughing at his own private joke.

“You would have married her wouldn’t you?” He mocks. “I’m sure you asked.”

Victor looks away, his hands balling into fists. 

“What do you want, Andrei?”

“I want a chance. With my son.”

Victor cocks his head. “His name is Yuri.”

Andrei holds his gaze. “With Yuri, then.”

“That would be difficult, with you living in America.”

He shakes his head, as if swatting a fly. “I’m moving back here. I’ve been offered a spot on the Moscow team.”

Victor taps his knee, trying to channel some energy. “Yuri doesn’t live in Moscow.”

“I know.” He takes another drag of his cigarette before dropping it into his cold coffee. “Have you adopted Yuri?”

Victor shoves his tongue in his cheek. “What does that matter? I’m his legal guardian.”

Andrei nods, as if humoring a very unintelligent dog. “Of course you are. But have you adopted him?”

Victor slaps the tabletop, their mugs rattling against the glass.

“You know I can’t adopt Yuri, you  _ asshole _ ,” he hisses. “You know that.”

Andrei smirks, looking victorious. He drops his used cigarette into his cup of coffee. 

“I suppose you can’t. Not as long as you’re unmarried.”

Victor grits his teeth.

“Elena wanted Yuri with me. It was her wishes.”

Andrei looks up through his lashes. “Those can be contested. I’m the boy’s father and securely employed. And married.”   


Victor laughs, the sound ugly and stuck in his throat. “Who would have ever married you, Adrushka?”

Andrei shrugs, unshaken. “The fact remains.”

He crosses his arms, looking Victor up and down. 

“There’s also the matter of who was with you in your apartment last night. Can you enlighten me,  _ Vityushka _ ?”

Yuuri.

Yuuri, with his pirouettes that are light as air. Yuuri, who sings to Elena’s baby. Yuuri, who’s brown eyes Victor had just started getting used to waking up to. Yuuri, who had gathered his things quietly while Andrei had spoke to Victor at the door, and slipped out with a quiet “excuse me” as if Victor had wanted him gone.

“He’s no one. No one to you.”

Andrei pauses, eyes locked on his. 

“Huh.”

He stands, looming over Victor.

“We were children together, Victor, but you won’t keep me from my son.”

He walks out, pulling his hood up against the coming rain. 

Victor swallows hard. Squeezes his eyes shut. He only has twenty minutes until he needs to be at the rink setting up for his beginner class. Twenty minutes to collect himself and get used to the new fact that Andrei Plisetsky was going to try to take Yuri from him. 

He jumps when his phone buzzes, rattling on the glass tabletop. His eyes snap open, and Yuuri’s name flashes across the screen. 

_ Is everything ok? _

The three words are simple but Victor knows Yuuri must have agonized over them, checking his phone constantly and typing and re-typing them while Yakov screamed at him to focus more on training. It’s loaded with other questions left unsaid:  _ Who was that last night? Should I be worried? Do you not want me this close? Do you want me to back away? Are we ok? _

_ Yes, _ he sends quickly, already typing more,  _ Are you at the rink? Will you come home with me after my class? _

There’s a moment where Yuuri appears to be typing, before the bubble disappears and reappears.

_ Sure, _ followed by,  _ Only if you want me to. _

Victor runs a hand through his hair. Selfishly, he wants Yuuri to be with him tonight. Lilia had once said something about the inherent selfishness of athletes that would choose a sport that involved solo performances and rhinestones. Perhaps there was something to it. 

Yuuri is a promising young skater, and Victor should let him go. But he won’t. 

He types quickly, sending the text without another thought. He grabs his bag, tossing some money on the table before making his way out of the cafe, his answer echoing through his mind. 

_ I always want you, Yuuri. _

 

* * *

 

Victor can’t remember being less prepared to teach a class in his life. 

Polina rushes towards him as soon as he’s through the door, hanging off his belt and babbling about something she had done in school that day. Her excitement only exaggerates her lisp and in his unfocused state he can barely take it all in. 

“That sounds nice, Polina, now just give me a minute–”

“Come on,  _ solnishka _ , give Victor a minute to lace up his skates,” her father says, patting Victor on the back.

Pavel lifts his daughter over his shoulder, and Polina screams with glee. It’s a familiar sight, but Victor feels hollow. The happy mothers and fathers walking their school-age children into the rink by the hand are a threat, a taunt against him. The sheer completeness of the picture they present. The dream, the norm, the  _ best thing for the child _ –  

Never had he felt so unprepared to teach, and he doesn’t see Yuuri anywhere. 

Somehow he gets changed and manages to line the children up and get them out onto the ice, leading them in some simple laps before dividing them into groups to practice weaving through lines of cones. He’s midway through helping little Otabek manage a crossover when he spots a woman out of the corner of his eye.

She standing by the rink barrier, and logically he knows she’s just a parent who stayed to watch her child skate, he’s even been introduced to her before, but in that moment all he can see is her blonde hair that nearly reaches her waist and the light-haired baby sitting in her arms, playing with her earrings. 

“Victor?” 

The voice sounds like it’s underwater. His small student is pulling at his sweatpants, looking for more directions. 

Closing his eyes, he thinks of all the days he had put a smile on, faked his way through a class like a professional until the fake felt like something real enough to duplicate. It was his signature, the best move in his arsenal next to his quad flip. 

He opens his eyes, and his small group of pupils watch him expectantly. Their parents watch expectantly to see what Victor will teach their children next Over their shoulders, the door to the men’s locker room opens and out comes Yuuri. He smiles, and gives a little wave. 

Victor smiles back, and takes a deep breath. 

“Ok, my little fish, I think it’s time to start some spins."

They erupt into excited babble as Victor does his best to introduce them to a simple two-foot spin. Most of them end up laughing and in a heap on the ice, but by the end Polina has made a few revolutions along with her peers. 

Once the class is over he says his goodbyes quickly before meeting Yuuri at the barrier, his small smile a beacon even in the bright stadium lights. 

“They did a good job,” he says, jerking his head towards his retreating class, their excited chatter bouncing off the walls of the cavernous space

Victor laughs. “They’re really too young to be doing spins. But I wanted them to have some fun.”

Yuuri shrugs. “I learned spins in my second lesson, not the best idea looking back, but I’m still here, right?”

Victor smiles. “Right.”

Yuuri looks down. He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder, and Victor wonders if he had been trying to sneak out before catching Victor’s eye.

Yuuri seems to read his thoughts.  “I know what last night looked like— I didn’t leave because I was mad—“

“I know,” Victor interrupts, holding out a hand. “I’m sorry he ruined our night.”

Yuuri shakes his head. “Was that…?”

Victor stills him with a hand to his upper arm. “I’ll tell you everything when we get home, I promise.”

Yuuri nods. “Ok. Are you ready to get going?” 

It only takes a few minutes to change and get his things together, and then they’re out in the humid early evening air. The train ride home feels like an eternity. Usually, when he’s fortunate enough to have Yuuri travel home with him, they see how far they can go: Yuuri’s finger brushing the side of Victor’s hand, Victor’s knee moved slightly to the left in other to press against Yuuri’s, that sort of thing. Tonight, Victor keeps his arms crossed tight over his chest. 

“Yakov had the new junior skaters on the ice earlier today,” Yuuri says out of the blue, his voice full of false lightness. 

Victor bites his bottom lip. He had lead his last novice class on Tuesday, giving a hug to all of his half-sized figure skaters and trying to keep Galina from throwing herself on the ice with her dramatics. They were under the direction of Yakov and his army of assistant coaches now. Without them, his evenings are open and he can get back to Yuri earlier, but in reality he would have to start picking up extra shifts at the restaurant to make up the difference. That class had been a favor from Yakov, and apparently his favors were running out. 

“How was Galina?” he manages, “Did Yakov have her do double axels?”

Yuuri purses his lips. “She… tried to. She didn’t land any today.”

Victor sighs. “I had her almost consistent on it too. Did he have her warm up with triples? Sometimes she needs to do three rotations before she remembers how to do two and half.”

Yuuri furrows his eyebrows. “I’m not sure.”

Victor shakes his head. He’s being silly. 

“It’s not like Yakov needs my help to teach a junior figure skater.”

“Are you sure? You could talk to him. Let him know what works for her.”

Victor scoffs. The train hits a bumpy section of track and he jolts forward. Yuuri grabs his arm, keeping him from falling out of his seat. The rest of the ride passes in silence, Yuuri’s foot tapping next to his at the speed of one hundred miles per hour. Victor tries to script out what he will say to him, how he will tell him that his life is about to change, and that Yuuri should leave if that’s what he wants. 

When they get home they feed Yuri and put him down for a late afternoon nap since Maria had warned them that he hadn’t slept all day and was feeling cranky. Yuuri leans over the crib, watching over Yuri until he is fast asleep. 

Victor is straightening the couch cushions when Yuuri emerges.

“Do you want to do take-out for dinner?” Victor starts, turning around and seeing Yuuri walk toward him with purpose, his eyes dark.

“Yuuri–  what–”

Yuuri backs Victor up against the wall and kisses him hard. Victor tenses with surprise, and Yuuri must feel it because he starts to back away. Victor wants anything but that, so he buries one hand in Yuuri’s hair and presses the other against the small of his back. Yuuri moans into his mouth and shoves his hands between them to work on Victor’s belt. Their lips part with a smack and then Yuuri sinks to his knees, his eyes dark and his lips swollen and shiny. 

So much for talking.

“ _ Yuuri _ .” 

Victor’s own voice is unrecognizable even to himself. They had touched each other before of course, had held each other close, and Victor had done this for Yuuri, but something had kept them slow. They had moved as if they had all the time in the world. 

And now?

Yuuri gets the fastenings of Victor’s pants open and reaches inside to pull him out. He hisses, sensitive and already hard from the sight of Yuuri on his knees. He can’t help but run his fingers through Yuuri’s hair and watch him dumbfounded as he closes his eyes and takes Victor’s length into his mouth, sucking light on the head and pulling back as if to think on the taste. He tries again, taking him deeper and Victor nearly smashes his head on wall behind him. 

Yuuri stops, and Victor has to steel himself before he groans in protest. Yuuri jacks him off tentatively, his fist loose and slow, and looks up at Victor through his eyelashes. For a moment, he looks shy, but it’s gone in a flash. He licks his lips, clearing his throat. 

“Victor,” He says, his voice rough. “How do you like it?”

Victor nearly comes in his hand, but luckily his mind is quicker and he hauls Yuuri up to kiss him, his heart pounding hard in his ears. He kisses Yuuri filthy, sliding his tongue alongside his and slipping his hands into his back pockets to push their hips together. Victor knows he should feel foolish with his pants half down and still standing in the kitchen, but there’s no room for it in his head as he hooks a leg around Yuuri’s and encourages him to rock against him. He does, slow and tense and with his face buried in the crook of Victor’s neck. 

Victor loses himself in that for awhile, stopping them only to reach between them and pull Yuuri’s cock out to slide against his own, their movements an aching parody of fucking.  _ That _ thought sets his mind reeling as he licks Yuuri’s neck, tasting salt and sweat and the peppermint soap Victor keeps in the shower– 

It stops when Yuuri fists a hand in his shirt and pulls him over to the sofa, sprawling Victor out on his back and climbing over him, stopping when he’s hovering over Victor’s hips. 

“I asked you a question,” Yuuri says, his voice dangerously low. 

Victor throws his head back, his ears ringing. 

“I–  ” Victor pants, “Yuuri, please–”

“Shh…” Yuuri pushes Victor’s shirt up, exposing his nipples to the chilly air. He runs his fingers over the sensitive nubs, biting his lower lip when that elicits a hitch in Victor’s breathing. “I just want you to give me an answer.”

“Yuuri–”

“ _ Victor _ . How do you like it?”

Victor’s head is clouded, full to the brim, but Yuuri’s voice is there, breaking through. 

“I want your mouth on me.”

He opens his eyes. Yuuri is watching him, smiling. 

“I want that too.”

Yuuri presses his thumbs into Victor’s hipbones and sinks down, and Victor is lost, lost, lost, the heat of Yuuri’s mouth surrounding him and leaving him a tense ball of muscles waiting for release. Yuuri is no expert but he makes up for it with enthusiasm, using his hands where he can’t reach and hollowing his cheeks. Victor holds his hair and arches his back, trying to use his words. 

“I’m going to–  I’m going to come–   _ Yuuri–” _

Yuuri sucks hard, undulating his tongue on the underside of his cock and  _ that _ has Victor spilling over the edge, his hands tightening in Yuuri’s hair and all the air in his body escaping him in one long exhale. 

Victor lifts his head, his ears still ringing but his head clearing. Yuuri is braced over him, one hand next to Victor’s head and the other on his cock, moving frantically as if he couldn’t chase his orgasm fast enough. Victor lifts a hand, running it over Yuuri’s knuckles, encouraging his movements. Yuuri’s eyes flick down to where Victor’s stomach is still bared, his eyes hungry with want.

“Yes,” Victor says, his answer ready before the question. “Come on me–  yeah–”

Yuuri closes his eyes, moaning long and low before coming in streaks over Victor’s stomach and chest. Victor pants, desire coursing through him despite his soft cock, and he rests a hand on the back of Yuuri’s neck and pulls him down to kiss him, mess be damned. 

Some time later Victor manages to muster up the strength to get a washcloth to clean them up but not enough to pull out the sofa bed, especially when Yuri would be waking up soon looking for dinner. Yuuri lays with his head resting on Victor’s chest, their legs entangled. One of Victor’s hands strokes through Yuuri’s hair, the strands falling through his fingers. 

“Your hair is getting long,” he says, breaking the silence. 

“So is yours.” Yuuri’s voice is soft. “I like that I’ve known you long enough for our hair to be longer.”

Victor swallows. The comment makes him sad. Yuuri must sense it. 

“I thought about what to say to you the whole train ride home.” He plays with Victor’s fingers. “Turns out talking isn’t my strong point, and I realized that after we passed the fourth stop. I thought maybe I could distract you instead.”

“You did more than distract me,  _ zoloste _ .”

Yuuri smiles. “Distract is the wrong word. Forget?”

Victor chuckles. “Maybe? You tell me. It’s your word.”

“I know,” Yuuri says, sitting up and leaning against his elbow. Victor immediately misses his warmth. “I don’t want you to think I was using sex to avoid anything. Especially since it was something you wanted to talk about.”

Victor reaches up and tucks a stray strand of hair behind Yuuri’s ear. “I don’t think that.”

Yuuri nods, pursing his lips. “Good.”

He still looks worried.

Victor suppresses his smile, knowing Yuuri might misinterpret his strange and utter  _ joy  _ at having someone so deeply care about his feelings. Sure, so many people had cared about him in his life, had worried about him, but it had been a long time since someone had cared about what he  _ felt _ .

“Would it help if I talked about it now?” he asks. 

Yuuri nods. “Yes. Please.”

Victor does. He tells him about his childhood friend Andrei who moved away when he was ten and came back a hockey star with a dashingly crooked nose. How Elena had fallen in love with him, and out of love, and back again within the same year. He doesn’t stop talking when Yuri wakes up and demands to be fed. Yuuri sits at the kitchen and listens as Victor tells him how Andrei had finally left after a fight with Elena to pursue a contract with the NHL, leaving her pregnant and alone. 

“I took my first skating class with him,” Victor says while Yuri takes care of a whole jar of mashed peas. “We wore hockey skates. The next year I started figure skating because Yakov saw me on the ice. I was happy when Elena and him got together–  I was. Until I realized that he had changed.”

Yuuri settles in, lifting a foot to his chair and resting his chin on his knee. 

“How?” he asks. 

Yuri finishes his last bite and Victor rises to put the spoon in the sink. He sighs, trying to find the words. 

“He didn’t want Elena to skate. No–  that’s not right. He didn’t want her to  _ compete _ . He thought she had done enough with her Olympic medal, and that skating professionally would be more lucrative. Andrei was always all about the money.”

“But Elena wasn’t done?”

Victor shakes his head, gripping the sides of the sink. “No. Of course not. She was only just beginning.”

He turns when he hears Yuri fussing, the source of it Yuuri getting him out of the high chair to bounce him up and down on his knee. Victor smiles.

“I wish I could have seen her skate again,” Yuuri says softly. “It’s nothing like–  nothing like what you must have felt. But she was my hero. I watched her olympic program every day on the way home from training, trying to match how she moved with the music.”

Victor nods, pursing his lips. “I wanted so much to be like her. She’s the reason I was able to win the silver medal at Nationals. She coached me more than Yakov, while she was pregnant.”

Yuri fusses, and Yuuri sets him down to crawl on the kitchen floor. 

When Yuuri looks up, his eyes are hard. 

“What does he want?”

Victor bites his lip, leaning back against the counter. The edge bites into his skin. 

“He wants custody of Yuri.”

Yuuri nods, watching as the baby in question crawls between the table legs and babbles incessantly. 

“What do you want?” he asks. 

The answer is simple, but Yuuri would never assume. “I want to keep Yuri.”

Yuuri’s eyes are dark in a new way when he meets Victor’s gaze. It’s the look he gets right before he nails a jump–  no fear.

“Then you will.”

Victor swallows, a lump building in his throat. “They can’t–   _ fuck _ . Our relationship could hurt the chances of that.”

Yuuri nods, his eyes still dark steel. “They don’t have to know. They can’t prove anything.”

Victor bites his lip again, looking up at the ceiling. “I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose Yuri.”

Yuuri’s chair scrapes across the floor. For once, Victor is thankful for the small kitchen, for how quickly Yuuri can get to him. His hands are warm against his face. Gentle, but firm. It’s one of the many things he loves about him.

“You won’t.”

 

* * *

 

Victor shifts in his seat, his one suit still as uncomfortable as the last time he had worn it to Elena’s funeral. The lawyer sitting next to Andrei shuffles a few papers around. 

He had received the papers a week ago, a summons to attend a preliminary hearing on the matter of custody for Yuri Plisetsky. The paper had the stamp of family court on it, it’s officiality stealing away whatever hope Yuuri had given him the week before.

“So,” the lawyer starts, looking up at Victor through a thick pair of bifocals. “I’m assuming you will not have counsel at these proceedings?”

Victor licks his lips, his throat painfully dry. “That’s correct.”

The lawyer harrumphs his answer, moving a few more papers around. Andrei is still as stone in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest. 

The lawyer finally finishes, taking off his glasses and setting them on the table. 

“Gentleman,” he starts. “This is not an open and shut case. It may get ugly, and there’s a chance no one will leave happy. Are you sure you can’t settle this out of court?”

Victor stares at Andrei, at the hard line of his jaw. His face had been hard when he had told Elena he was leaving. 

“I’m sure,” Victor says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! I bet you thought you'd seen the last of me. *cameras flash*
> 
> I hope someone out there is still interested in this fic, because I have every intention of finishing it. New fandoms and real life sometimes get in the way, but Victor and Yuuri still hold a giant place in my heart. 
> 
> Please comment and let me know what you think about the turns this story is taking! I'm hoping to get the next chapter out very soon.


End file.
